dream! Do you know you have not wished me a merry Christmas, sir? But, never mind, you have brought me the best Christmas gift of all."
He has turned his back to me, and is looking out of the window.
"Good-bye," I say, pausing at the door. "I shall not go to church this morning."
In the hall Dolly and the children crowd about me, but I just tell them Paul has come back, and break away from them all.
I wave my hand to George through the window. How terribly pale and strange he looks! Then I go away over the snow with hurrying, dancing feet. Have I not got my Christmas morning at last—real, golden, perfect? In the whole wide world does there beat such a happy heart as mine? I have not asked George how it happens that Paul never wrote: he shall tell me that himself, and I will be so angry with him, lazy, naughty, careless fellow. As I turn the corner of the meadow I see him standing with his back to me, leaning over the stile, and for a moment I stand still—the absolute delight of seeing him in the old familiar place is so keen, that it leaves me no immediate longing to touch his hand or hear his voice. Then I walk quickly on. He does not turn his head, and he used to hear my footfall quick enough. Perhaps the snow dulls it. I am close upon him when he looks round and faces me.
"You have come back," I say, thrusting both my eager hands into his; "and I have been so frightened, so miserable. . ."
He does not answer, only, as I lay my head down on his shoulder, he lifts his arms and folds them about me, pressing my head close against his breast.
"Do you know that I thought you would never come back, that you were dead, or that some one had come between us, and even now I cannot believe that you are here . . . you ought to have written, darling. Did you not guess what a miserable time it would
