“For once,” she explained, “I can settle in to writing cards—Cornelius and I by the fire after tea. We talk about the people, so many we have failed to write to over these last years. You mustn’t think of us as isolated or lonely,” and she laughed suddenly, “or too queer. The fact is that it’s a kind of late honeymoon and we savor every instant of it—at least I do. I’m not even giving presents, just cash.” And she laughed again. “Do you remember that old George Price cartoon of the wild old woman making fake money and saying, ‘This year we are just giving money’?” She leaned her head back against the armchair. “No wrapping up, no grim hours in the shops trying to find teddy bears or something.”

“I see your point,” John said, exchanging a glance with Sybille, who, only yesterday, had been complaining of the hell of so many nieces and nephews and aunts and cousins who must be remembered. “And next year you can give the history of Willard!”

“Next year?” Christina realized she never thought that far ahead any more. Next year for some reason sent a shiver down her spine.

Before Cornelius left the hospital the next afternoon, she had a talk with the doctor. It was not really a surprise to learn that, although the patient had made progress up to a point, he seemed now to have reached a plateau.

“What impressed me,” said Dr. Paget, “is that he himself doesn’t talk about getting back to State Street as he did constantly in those first months. It is as if he had laid that aside in his own mind—abdicated, if you like. I believe this to be significant.”

Christina’s eyes filled with tears, but she said quite matter-of-factly, “His range has narrowed down. Willard, the village itself, absorbs his mind. He still has so much to give … he is …” she searched for the word “growing all the time.”

“Your husband is a remarkable man—a man of very great courage, Mrs. Chapman. Not everyone can handle almost total disability in this way. Everything must be done to keep his attention alive, not to let him sink down, so to speak. He told me yesterday that he is worried because he dozes off. Don’t let it worry you. Part of it is a healing process. He mustn’t get overtired. But …”

“But?” Christina waited. She felt as if a sort of doom had struck in the last few minutes. What was Dr. Paget really telling her?

“But the more he can live the better; the more you can ask of him the better. The wheel chair will make him movable. That was a good idea.”

Dr. Paget took a cigarette out of his pocket absent-mindedly and lit it.