442 OUR FORTUNE.
He stood a moment picking nervously at some withered leaves on my geraniums, as one uncer- tain how to express himself; then he spoke ab- ruptly.
“Mrs. Lawrence, Scripture does not tell us so, but don’t you imagine that if the Good Samaritan ever got into trouble, he who fell among thieves was the first to offer him aid and sympathy? Well, as I stand in much the same relation to you, will you not tell me the cause of your distress, and let me, at least, try to mitigate it?”
This was the longest speech I had ever heard the old man make. He spoke awkwardly, hesi- tatingly, but there was no mistaking the genuine pity expressed in his words. I had been chok- ing back the tears for weeks, but at this kind touch they burst forth like an imprisoned flood; and amidst my sobs I poured out a history of our troubles to one whom 7 instinctively felt was not only an interested listener, but a friend in adversity.
For awhile he allowed me to indulge my grief unchecked. Then leaving the geranium, and taking a seat near me, he told me something that dried my eyes and brought the long-ban- ished smiles back to my face. But, as it was be a secret for awhile, even from my husband, I will let the reader wait a little for an expla- nation.
The early weeks of December sped by without bringing any improvement in our affairs. I had begged that we should not move until after Christmas; and though the weekly rent was a heavy strain on Harry’s slender savings, the morning preceding that great festival found us still in our old quarters.
“Harry,” said I, as breakfast over, he began to prepare for another weary march, “I wish you'd leave me some money, I want to bake a Christmas-cake.”
Harry opened his eyes wide in astonishment that I, who had been so rigidly economical, should wish to rush into such extravagance; but he evidently had not the heart to refuse me, for he took out his pocket-book at once—a very flaccid pocket-book it had become!
“There, Bess, that’s the lot!” he said, smiling sadly, as he placed a ten-dollar note, a two, and some small change upon the table.
Poor fellow! I could scarcely refrain from throwing my arms around his neck, and reveal- ing that which I most desired to keep a secret. However, I conquered my weakness, and said, calmly,
“Well, I'll take the two-dollar bill; I guess I can make that do.”
Harry looked at me a moment, with an ex- pression in which consideration for me, and thoughtful prudence, were strangely mingled; then, with some hesitation, he said,
«Do you think it is wise, Bess, to do this just now, when everything is so high, and nothing coming in? And the rent will be due in a few days, too.”
“I don’t care!” I interrupted, recklessly, “Christmas comes but once a year, and I am determined to have the cake.”
My husband said no more; and as soon after his departure as I could get my breakfast- things cleared away, and the necessary ma- terials procured, I began operations. Little Vivia, perched up in her dinner-chair at the table, was vastly interested in seeing the sugar, eggs, and flour, conglomerated into the smooth, yellow mass, (I wish she took as much interest in such work now;) and when later, the whites of the eggs, which I had reserved for icing, were beaten into snow-like foam, she screamed with delight. In a spoonful of this icing, which I saved for ornamentation, I mixed a pinch of cochineal, and the legend that I traced in rose- colored letters on the pure white crust, was the old, old Christmas-anthem, “Peace on earth, good-will to men!”
That evening, after baby had gone to sleep, nation. and I had slipped a few sticks of candy, and a homemade dolly into her little stocking. I went across to help the Grobes dress their Christmas tree.
Those who imagine that happy Christmas heavy strain on Harry’s slender savings, the} comes in its fullest enjoyment only to the rich, morning preceding that great festival found us} are vastly mistaken. True, my neighbors had still in our old quarters. no twenty-dollar walking-dolls, or automatic “Harry,” said I, as breakfast over, he began: cars and steamboats, with which to decorate to prepare for another weary march, “I wish} their festal-tree; but the loving cheerfulness
