“But you forget Miss Morse—and so many others!” It was Christina’s turn to get up and go to the window, look out on the white world, so opulent and so stark at the same time, “Jane Tuttle, dear old Jem, Eben, Dinnock and Orin, Old Pete—it’s a rich variety of human beings, Ellen, you’ll have to grant that.”

“Well, I can see it looks good and kind of human if you’ve lived in a city all your life. Then you have the best of both worlds. Then you can come back and drink from the pure water of a village well—and it must taste good. I might have liked a glass of champagne now and then.”

“Ah, you shall have one,” and Christina laughed with the joy of it. “Next time I come down, I’ll bring a bottle.”

“It’s champagne enough to have you around for a winter, I guess.” The words came out stiff. It had taken an effort to say them—that supreme effort of giving away something of all the withheld affection. Ellen, Christina suddenly saw, hugged everything she felt deeply, just because it was so deeply felt. “I’m copying Eben—he said you were like a glass of champagne.”

“He did, eh? No fool like an old fool, I guess.”

“You be careful now,” Ellen teased.

“At seventy-five one of the best things about life is that one doesn’t need to be. I shan’t be careful a bit!”

After all, the dour mood had changed, and Christina drove off to the village store, humming an old tune she and Cornelius had used to dance to in the days of the tango. Who could have imagined that old age would be so rich and full? Just to cap the morning she saw a flock of evening grosbeaks on her way home.

CHRISTINA’S JOURNAL—December 7