You know how the wind sweeps across the road near
the Pond schoolhouse. I believe there is to be a Christmas-eve
celebration in the Town Hall this evening, is there not?"
"No; it has been postponed till to-morrow evening."
"That will be better. The weather and walking will both be
better. Shall we go, Mary?"
"If you wish it," she said, hesitatingly.
Her husband understood her hesitation. Christmas day was a sad
anniversary for them. Four years before, their only son, Walter,
a boy of eight, had died just as the Christmas church bells were
ringing out a summons to church. Since then the house had been a
silent one, the quiet unbroken by childish noise and merriment.
Much as the doctor and his wife were to each other, both felt the
void which Walter's death had created, and especially as the
anniversary came around which called to mind their great loss.
"I think we had better go," said the doctor; "though God has
bereft us of our own child, it will be pleasant for us to watch
the happy faces of others."
"Perhaps you are right, Joseph."
Half an hour passed. The doctor continued reading the Atlantic,
while his wife, occupied with thoughts which the conversation had
called up, kept on with her work.
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