mother's just fine, little one. Now, you just have a happy Christmas together and I'll come to see you again next week."
She fixed him with those round blue eyes. "Papa is never going to come, is he? He'll never bring my brother Harry."
Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings always came the truth, the doctor thought. "Mr. Harrison's a very busy man," he lied, "and it's a long journey for the little boy."
"Harry's almost four now. I came here when I was only three."
He had no answer. "Happy Christmas, Francie," he said, feeling like Scrooge as he left. "There's a present on the table for you. Mrs. Benson and I surely hope you enjoy it. Oh, and there's one for Princess too. She's getting to be a big dog now."
Francie held Princess's collar so she wouldn't run after Dr. Benson. The dog was big and strong and stood as tall as she did, but it sat quietly at her side as she watched the carriage bouncing over the potholes down the rain-soaked drive, water spraying from under its wheels.
The weather turned icy that night, but the pot-bellied iron stove, fueled with apple logs, glowed with heat and the old wooden house was cosy. A fire burned brightly in Dolores's room and Francie stretched out on the hearth rug with Princess beside her. Propped on one elbow, her chin in her hand, she stared deep into the flames, listening to her mother's labored breathing. Dolores slept fitfully, waking every now and then to cough. Then the nurse would put down her knitting and hurry from her chair in the corner to gently wipe away the blood that trickled from the corner of her mouth, as darkly red as the port wine Harmon had sent.
Francie said quietly, "Mama's not better, is she? I can hear the noise in her chest, that rattling sound—"
"She's all right dear," the nurse said, looking up from her patient. But a worried frown appeared between her eyes and her jaw tightened. "Perhaps you and Princess should go to bed now, Francie," she said, smoothing Dolores's pillows. "Tomorrow's Christmas and we'll have a fine old time. Cook's fixing a goose and there's presents to be opened. Best you and your Mama get some rest now."
Francie bent to kiss her mother as she left, and then she said, "I'll pray to the baby Jesus tonight to help Mama get better."
"You do that, Francie," the nurse replied.
She woke early next morning. Her room was cold as ice, and pushing Princess from her feet, she flung back her blankets and rushed to the window. A light fall of snow covered the entire valley and the distant mountain tops sparkled in the pale sunshine. Snow dappled the branches of the trees and icicles hung from the gutter over the rainbutt.
"Oh, Princess," she cried, flinging her arms around the dog, "look what we got for Christmas." And with a great whoop of delight, she flung her coat over her nightie, pulled on her boots, grabbed the egg-basket and ran laughing down the corridor and out onto the porch.
The sun was already melting the snow into little pools that would turn to ice later that night. Francie ran around in excited little circles, making footprints while Princess jumped around her, barking madly. Then she half-ran, half-slid to the henhut, rooting out the chilly disgruntled birds and seizing their eggs, laid for once in their nests. Next she skidded down to the frozen pond, laughing at the attempts of the bewildered geese to paddle on the ice, and from there to the stables to feed Blaize some oats and to wish her a Merry Christmas.
Carrying her egg basket carefully, she hurried back to the house and tiptoed to her mother's room. The curtains were still drawn and though the embers in the grate still glowed faintly orange, it felt cold. The nurse was asleep in her corner chair, her chin sunk on her chest and her knitting still clasped in her hands. Francie tiptoed past her to the bed.
"Mama," she whispered, "look what the hens have sent you for Christmas. A beautiful, perfect brown egg." She held it up for her mother to see, but there was
She fixed him with those round blue eyes. "Papa is never going to come, is he? He'll never bring my brother Harry."
Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings always came the truth, the doctor thought. "Mr. Harrison's a very busy man," he lied, "and it's a long journey for the little boy."
"Harry's almost four now. I came here when I was only three."
He had no answer. "Happy Christmas, Francie," he said, feeling like Scrooge as he left. "There's a present on the table for you. Mrs. Benson and I surely hope you enjoy it. Oh, and there's one for Princess too. She's getting to be a big dog now."
Francie held Princess's collar so she wouldn't run after Dr. Benson. The dog was big and strong and stood as tall as she did, but it sat quietly at her side as she watched the carriage bouncing over the potholes down the rain-soaked drive, water spraying from under its wheels.
The weather turned icy that night, but the pot-bellied iron stove, fueled with apple logs, glowed with heat and the old wooden house was cosy. A fire burned brightly in Dolores's room and Francie stretched out on the hearth rug with Princess beside her. Propped on one elbow, her chin in her hand, she stared deep into the flames, listening to her mother's labored breathing. Dolores slept fitfully, waking every now and then to cough. Then the nurse would put down her knitting and hurry from her chair in the corner to gently wipe away the blood that trickled from the corner of her mouth, as darkly red as the port wine Harmon had sent.
Francie said quietly, "Mama's not better, is she? I can hear the noise in her chest, that rattling sound—"
"She's all right dear," the nurse said, looking up from her patient. But a worried frown appeared between her eyes and her jaw tightened. "Perhaps you and Princess should go to bed now, Francie," she said, smoothing Dolores's pillows. "Tomorrow's Christmas and we'll have a fine old time. Cook's fixing a goose and there's presents to be opened. Best you and your Mama get some rest now."
Francie bent to kiss her mother as she left, and then she said, "I'll pray to the baby Jesus tonight to help Mama get better."
"You do that, Francie," the nurse replied.
She woke early next morning. Her room was cold as ice, and pushing Princess from her feet, she flung back her blankets and rushed to the window. A light fall of snow covered the entire valley and the distant mountain tops sparkled in the pale sunshine. Snow dappled the branches of the trees and icicles hung from the gutter over the rainbutt.
"Oh, Princess," she cried, flinging her arms around the dog, "look what we got for Christmas." And with a great whoop of delight, she flung her coat over her nightie, pulled on her boots, grabbed the egg-basket and ran laughing down the corridor and out onto the porch.
The sun was already melting the snow into little pools that would turn to ice later that night. Francie ran around in excited little circles, making footprints while Princess jumped around her, barking madly. Then she half-ran, half-slid to the henhut, rooting out the chilly disgruntled birds and seizing their eggs, laid for once in their nests. Next she skidded down to the frozen pond, laughing at the attempts of the bewildered geese to paddle on the ice, and from there to the stables to feed Blaize some oats and to wish her a Merry Christmas.
Carrying her egg basket carefully, she hurried back to the house and tiptoed to her mother's room. The curtains were still drawn and though the embers in the grate still glowed faintly orange, it felt cold. The nurse was asleep in her corner chair, her chin sunk on her chest and her knitting still clasped in her hands. Francie tiptoed past her to the bed.
"Mama," she whispered, "look what the hens have sent you for Christmas. A beautiful, perfect brown egg." She held it up for her mother to see, but there was
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