From the Improvement Era, December 1911/January 1912 –

John Engleman and the Spirit of Christmas

By Nephi Anderson

They came from the west; there were two of them only; they were not wise; neither had they a star to guide them.

It was a cold day for traveling. The storms of the past few days had made the roads soft; but they were now being crusted by the frost through which the tired horses broke at every step, and the wheels dragged heavily. The two travelers sat in the spring-seat of the farm wagon. The young man’s coat was buttoned to his chin; driving gloves covered his hands; a slouch hat hung over his ears. The woman by his side was muffled and wrapped so that her face only was exposed. This, it could be seen, though young and pretty, was now pinched and careworn.

“Harvey,” asked the young woman, “where are we? I’m cold.”

“We are nearly to the point of the mountain,” replied her companion. “We are making the best time possible on these roads.” He drew the blankets up farther over her lap and tucked them well around her, though his own knees were uncovered. He touched the horses with the whip, to which they unwillingly responded.

The sky, clear during the first part of the day, was now overcast again. The wind blew from the north, and there was a feeling of snow in the air. Christmas was but a few days in the future, so the weather was seasonable enough; but it was most cold and miserable to those two sitting on the wagon, suffering not only from outside cold, but also from that which comes from some unknown source deep in the human heart.

For fully an hour the horses plodded on, the two travelers sitting as if wholly withdrawn within each others’ thoughts. Not a word was spoken. The long stretch of road came to an end, and the horses tugged slowly up the hill. Twice they stopped to rest before they reached the summit. Then as they trotted down the hill towards the village, its lamps gleamed through the darkening gloom, and the first flakes of snow began to fall.

Less than a year ago, these two, Harvey and Clara Woodson, newly made man and wife, had traveled over this same road going westward to take up land and to make a home for themselves. With high hopes they had set out to realize their dreams of future happiness; but now they were returning, their dreams vanished, their star of hope set in a dark sky, their hearts cold, and troubled, and sad. This was the end, they said to themselves. What had the future in store for them? Oh, what a lot of misery could be tucked into the short time between Christmases!

What was the trouble with these two? It would be hard to put a finger on one particular cause of their falling out. Neither of them had been guilty of any great wrong, but there were many little things that displayed a lack of wisdom, misunderstandings, unthoughtfulness, unkindness as to each others feelings, unchecked tempers, unwillingness to forgive and forget. They had not understood that love, to be stamped as true, must undergo a test. Love amid sunny skies and blooming flowers is quite different from love amid poverty, hard work, and the testing of muscles and tempers. These two had been unschooled; and now at the first hard lessons, they had failed. Yes; they had agreed that their troubles had piled up to mountain height, insurmountable. The only way to end the struggle, they thought, was to separate. She would go back home to her mother; he might go where he would. This they had decided on, and were now carrying out.

The hardest part of that journey was the end. As they neared the village, each felt that the silence between them ought to be broken. He wanted to say something, and a thousand thoughts crowded into her mind to which she could not give expression.

At last they drew up to a gate. Her father and mother had known of their coming, and were waiting. Harvey leaped down first and lifted his wife to the ground, holding her close for an instant before she ran with a little cry from him into the house. Her boxes and trunks were unloaded, then the young man climbed back into the spring-seat.

“Harvey,” pleaded Mr. Waite, “you’re not going home tonight.”

“Yes, I’ll drive right on.”

“Don’t be foolish. Come, we’ll put up your tired team — you go in and get warm.”

“Not tonight, thank you just the same. I, too, am going home. Good night.”

The horses were told to go. Clara’s father and mother stood in the lamp glow from the open door, the snow flakes alighting on their uncovered heads, while they saw their son-in-law drive on down the road and disappear in the darkness.

John Engleman was far removed from the spirit of Christmas, both in thought and feeling. The rising north wind, whistling around the corners and rattling the loose boards of his shanty, threatened snow. Within, the rusty stove glowed with heat when John piled in the sage-brush; but if this work was neglected for any length of time, the fire died down and the stove became cold. And John Engleman, careless, of both self and fire, sat in his improvised chair by the stove with no light but that which came uncertainly from the open door of the stove.

A strong puff of wind blew the shanty door open, at the same time driving the smoke from the stove into the room. John arose, went to the door as if to close it, but instead, he stepped outside and looked up into the sky. He saw the snow coming, but it meant nothing particular to him. His stock had been provided for, his two horses were well housed for the night. His dog shared with him a corner of the shanty near the wood-box; and were not these all that were immediately dependent on him? As for himself, well, the shanty was not very comfortable, especially in cold weather, but what of it? His house in town, or for that matter the finest in the land, could not just now give more of happiness or of a contented mind.

With a parting look into the sky, John Engleman went back into the house and closed the door tightly after him. He lifted the lid from the stove and forced in some more brush. Then he lighted a lamp, but he found the chimney so smoky that he took it off again and cleaned it. He could now see to read.

To read! He had not read a book for long months. What to him were the petty or foolish imaginings of others when he himself had lived so intensely; but he knew it was well sometimes to get away from one’s own thoughts to those of others, and to take part in others’ adventures and experiences. What should he read that evening?

His box of books was packed ready to be carted away the next day, but he would have to find something among them something that would either entertain him or would send him asleep to the land of oblivion. He drew out a small, well-worn volume. It proved to be Dickens’ Christmas Carol. Why, to be sure, it was time to read it again. Each year, just before Christmas, John Engleman had made it a practice to read this little story to put him in the proper Christmas attitude. So far, the custom had succeeded in its object very well; but could he read it again?

A little more than twelve months had passed since lie had read the Christmas Carol — it seemed a Ions time ago. How they — Clara Waite and he — had enjoyed that reading! How they had drank in the sweet spirit of Christmas! How they had denounced grouchy old Scrooge and his stinginess! How they had danced with delight at the Fezzewig’s party! How they had enjoyed their visit at Bob Cratchet’s, and how they also had feasted with the family on that wonderful roast goose and more wonderful plum pudding! Should he read the story again, and alone? He sat and thumbed the book, noting some places he had underscored. He read over the greeting between Scrooge and his nephew, then continued, following all the pranks of the Ghosts of Christmas Past, Christmas Present, and Christmas Future, as they took their charge over England’s green fields and among London’s murky streets.

The wind blew hard outside, and the snow now came beating against the thin walls of the shanty, lodging closely in windows and door. John hugged the stove. The brush fire was out when the repentant Scrooge of the story, rejoicing that he still had a chance to shape his life for the better, went to spend a merry Christmas with his nephew.

“A great story,” said John to himself. “Some day I’m going to London just because it was Dickens’ town. Out in this wild west such things as the novelist describes could not be. Here there are no Scrooges, no Bob Cratchets, no such poverty of spirit or body. Here is God’s big, free, open country, where everybody can get a decent living, and where there are no despots to grind the face of the poor. No; that is true, but there are other things — heartaches, loneliness, disappointments, and … Go to bed, John Engleman, and sleep off those brooding thoughts.”

He had stripped himself of his coat, getting ready to tumble in, when he heard the whinney of a horse near his door. Listening, he caught a wagon’s muffled roll through the snow. Slipping on his coat again, he went to the door, opened it, and peered out into the snow storm and the blackness.

“Halloo, who’s there,” shouted John.

The wagon stopped, and a voice replied from the seat, “Is that you, John? What are you doing here this time of the year?”

“Who is it? I can’t see you out there.”

“I’m Harvey Woodson. Don’t you know me?”

“Harvey! Well, I never! and what are you doing here this time of the night?”

“I’m traveling — on the way home.”

“Are you alone? Where — where’s your wife?”

“She’s not with me. She’s at her mother’s.”

“Well, that’s a good place to be on such a night as this; — but, say, your team is all fagged out?”

“Yes; we’ve been going all day. It’s cold, too.” There was no ring to the voice that came through the falling snow, and John Engleman discerned it.

“Look here, Harve,” said he, “you had better stay with me over night. There is room in the stable for your horses, with plenty of feed; and you can bunk with me.”

The driver sat without replying. The horses hung their heads in exhaustion.

“Come,” urged John, “drive into the yard, and I’ll help you.”

“Thank you, John, but I guess I’ll drive on.”

“Not much. You’ll stay with me tonight, and you can drive on early in the morning.” He took the horses by the lines, led them into the yard, and began to unhitch. The driver remained in careless inactivity for some time before he jumped down stiff and cold and, without protesting further, helped put up his horses. They carried some quilts and boxes into the shanty. Then more sage-brush was stuffed into the stove and made to burn.

“Are you hungry?” asked John. “I haven’t much, but I can get you something.”

“No; never mind. Just let me get warm, then roll up in my blankets and go to sleep.”

“Of course, you shall do as you please about that; but what is the matter, Harve?”

“I can’t talk about it — not now. I’m just dead tired, and cold.”

“Didn’t you walk to keep warm?” asked John as he added more fuel to the fire.

“No; I just sat and froze, and nearly went to sleep. Would to God I had, and never wakened.”

John was startled. What did this mean? Harvey Woodson had driven westward less than a year ago with his young wife, and here they were back again — and in such a condition. The wife was not ill or worse. John made some guarded inquiries from Which he learned that Clara was at her mother’s, safe enough in those respects; but further information was not forthcoming. The traveler soon became warmed, then rolled up in his blankets on the floor. He said, no, firmly, when the other urged him to occupy the narrow bunk by the wall.

John Engleman looked wonderingly at his friend, as he lay with face averted. For a long time he sat by the table, feeding the fire when it burned low. Then when he heard the hard breathing of the sleeper on the floor, he also went to bed. But there was no sleep for a long time. There were troubles in the world, other than his own, it seemed, even with those whom he supposed to be supremely happy. Marley’s ghost walked again that night, mixing, in some strange, mystic way, with John and his returned friends, Harvey and Clara.

The two men were up by daylight in the morning. There was more life in Harvey, and he said he had slept like a log. John prepared breakfast while Harvey went out to see to the horses. The sky was clear, the air cold. While eating breakfast John explained that he was just ready to move to town for the winter. The other talked on general topics only, until he had hitched his team and was seated in his wagon to drive off. Then he said:

“John, I’m obliged to you. You have helped me a lot.”

“I’m glad of it. Let me help some more.”

“You can’t. Nobody can.”

“Why? What is the matter?”

“It’s all off between us.”

“Between you and Clara?”

“Yes.”

“Harve, how can you say that?”

“It’s true. Goodbye. I’ll see you again soon.” He cracked his whip, and the horses pulled out heavily along the road.

That same afternoon John Engleman deserted his summer camp and with his belongings drove into the village. There he heard more news of Harvey and Clara Woodson, for such things travel quickly. The gossips were busy, and the stories, augmented like a rolling ball of snow, soon assumed large proportions. John listened to the talk, but said nothing, though he thought and felt much, coming as all this did so near a certain tenderness of his own.

Then John withdrew from the village and its talk to be alone. A great temptation had come to him: Clara might yet be his. The thought made his heart leap, and emotions surged through him A divorce had been mentioned. That would leave her free. His fond dream might yet be realized, that dream from which he had been so rudely awakened when Clara Waite had chosen Harvey instead of him. Hope, then, was not dead, as he had concluded.

Was he selfish? Yes; but is not all love selfish? Why should not he have a taste of happiness? He would not quarrel with Clara. He had a better way, he was wiser. Besides, Harvey had had his chance, but had not made good. The coming together of those two had been a terrible blunder which he alone could correct. He had always thought that Clara was for him — yes, he remembered clearly how she had come into his life, and how she had chased away the dull care that was making him an old man. And here were his first thoughts and impressions vindicated.

These were all temptations, and John Engleman knew it. In his innermost heart he had to acknowledge them to be such, and that he must resist them. His better, more rational self told him this: Harvey and Clara were man and wife. What business had he to think of them in any other way? He had lost once in a fair “fight.” Was it not cowardly now to take advantage of a former “enemy” who was down? Conditions were bad enough between Harvey and Clara, and yet he had thought to make them worse. All this John Engleman acknowledged, and yet it was not so easy to give up his thoughts of what might yet be. Christmas was at the door. To whom should it bring happiness? It might come to him — only by bringing miseiy to others. That was a worldly happiness, not worthy of the Spirit of Christmas who was supposed to preside at this season of the year. Then another suggestion came to him, came from some small, still voice deep down in his heart, as if the spirit of Christmas might have put it there. This idea grew with him, until at length it became strong enough to assert itself boldly and oppose the spirit of Selfishness— the spirit that had posession of Scrooge in the story, said John Engleman.

The evening of the clay that John Engleman had fully made up his mind what to do, he met on the street as if by good fortune Clara Woodson’s father. They stopped, as was their custom, and passed the time of day.

“And how is Clara?” asked John.

The father looked k3enly at the enquirer as if to discern his meaning. “She is as well as can be expected,” was the reply.

“I have been thinking that I ought to call and see her.”

“Not yet — no, not now.”

“You misjudge me, I fear,” John hastened to say.” Harvey is, as you know, an old friend of mine. I would go as his friend, to do him good — and her too. I believe I can help them.”

“If you can, come by all means. I am apparently helpless.”

“I’ll go right along with you now.”

It was already dark on the village street, so there could be no comment on the fact that John took Mr. Waite’s arm as they walked along towards the house. A light shone from the front room, and there they found Clara and her mother.

“Here’s an old friend come to see you.” said the father.

John shook hands with Mrs. Waite and then with Clara. He saw that the once rosy-cheeked girl was now a hollow-cheeked woman, with lines of care in her pale face. She greeted him quietly, somewhat reticent. They all talked for some time on commonplace matters, and then at Mr. Waite’s contrivance, John and Clara were left alone.

“Clara — Mrs. Woodson. I called this evening for a purpose,” began John.

“Don’t!” she exclaimed, moving towards the door as if to follow her father out.

“Pardon me, but you do not understand. 1 have not come as I once did. I am here as Harvey Woodson’s friend, to do good for him if I can. He has helped me many a time, and now I want to help him…. He stayed with me the night you both came home.”

The woman stood still, listening intently.

“Yes — and what did he say about me?” she asked.

“He said nothing about you; he would not talk; but I could see that he has taken his trouble terribly to heart.”

With a little startled cry she stepped nearer the speaker, then sank into a chair by the table. John Engleman now knew how unfounded his own momentary hopes had been. His duty became plainer, and he received added strength to do it.

“I am going to see Harvey tomorrow,” continued John; “and I want to bring a message to him from you — a message of good will. It’s Christmas time, you know.”

“Yes, but — he doesn’t care.”

“Don’t say that; I know better.”

“Then why has he treated me like this?” She spoke with a rising temper.

“Like what?”

“Well — never mind I don’t understand you. What do you want?”

“See here, Clara, I’m going to be plain. You two have quarreled. Neither of you will give in now, nor make the first advances toward a better understanding. Someone else must help you, and I have come to do that.”

“It is useless. You can’t do anything. Harvey — “

“Sh — I can help because I know you both so well. You can’t deny that I know about your quick temper and other weaknesses. I remember how that temper of yours used to come up like a thunder storm from a clear sky. Have you overcome that?”

“Well, no, but—“

“Let me tell you something which I want you to think seriously about: once upon a time Harvey Woodson thought you were the most perfect creature out of heaven. He loved you blindly then, even as he now loves you with eyes wide open. He set you high. What have you done to bring his ideals low in the dust?”

She answered him nothing.

“Don’t you know,” he continued, “that every time we show our weaknesses, every time our ugly natures crop out, those who love us are terribly pained. They see their ideals lowered, and that which they thought was the most beautiful of treasures robbed of its loveliness; and when these ugly outbreaks continue without any effort at correction, the results are aw ml. I am not blaming you altogether, but pari of the fault is yours, and you must awaken permanently to thai fact.”

“Why do you come and talk to me like this?”

“Because I am your friend — and Harvey’s.”

“For no other reason?”

“No — well, yes; there is another reason.”

“What is that?”

“Day after tomorrow is Christmas. I have wooed and won the sweet spirit of Christmas — you see, I can win some beautiful things.” He laughed as if he meant this to be a little joke.

“I don’t quite understand.”

“Perhaps not. Let me make myself plain.” She moved her chair nearer the table on which stood the lamp. She toyed with a book, glancing now and then at the man who was once a lover and who had now come on such a strange errand.

“Let me tell you something about Harvey,” said he, “something that perhaps you do not know.”

“Yes— all right.”

“I have said, and as you know, he and I were chums — until you came. You chose Harvey, which you had a perfect right to do. I — I don’t think you made any mistake No; I may not give you any reasons for that just now, but that does not matter. Harvey Was perfectly honorable with me when he learned of my feelings. He came to me and said: ‘Old man, I’m out of it. Forgive me for butting in.’

“‘Look here’ said I ‘this is a free country, and you have just as much right to try to win Clara Waite as I have. I think a lot of her, but if I am not mistaken, so do you.’

“‘Well, I do’, he acknowledged, ‘but I’m not going to cut you out,’

“‘Harvey Woodson’, said I, ‘If you can cut me out, I want you to do it. I don’t want a wife that somebody else ought to have. Further, I don’t want to marry a girl that someone could have taken from me had he had the chance.’”

“Did you say that?”

“I did, and much more.” The speaker moved his chair also nearer the table. “And I repeat that now, for 1 feel the same today. With that understanding, Harvey sailed in, and won. No matter what 1 lost, what I went through. He won, and that
settled it for me — forever.”

She looked strangely at him across the table while he continued to talk. No one, not even her father had been so plain and had probed so into the very depths of their trouble. At times what he said hurt terribly, but this was a desperate case, and gentler means would not bring the desired results. At last she said:

“What do you want me to do?”

“Just now I want you to spend Christmas Eve at my house. There will be just a few people — you and Harvey and your folks and myself.”

“He won’t come.”

“Will you?”

“I — Oh, he won’t come if he knows I am to be there.”

“Will you come if he will, knowing he is to meet you?”

“Yes,” she said at last.

John remained for supper, when he also obtained the promise of Mr. and Mrs. Waite to be present at his home on Christmas Eve.

The next day John Engleman rode out to Harvey Woodson’s. He saw no one about, so he stabled his horse and went into the house. Harvey was in, sitting by the kitchen stove with his head in his hands.

“A merry Christmas!” shouted, John as he stamped the snow from his boots, in the open doorway.

“Halloo, John,” replied the other. “What are you doing here? Come right in.”

“I am delivering invitations.”

Harvey straightened and motioned his visitor to a chair. The room was hot and close, so John threw off his overcoat. As he glanced around, he saw that the floor was unswept, and the table was stacked with dirty dishes. The stove was red with rust. Harvey sat in his stable clothes, his boots soiled, and his hair touseled, as if it had not seen a comb for a week.

“Yes,” continued John, “I want you to come to my house this evening. It’s Christmas Eve, you know, and it will be pretty lonesome out here all by yourself, your mother being away.”

“Yes, but I can stand it.”

“You see, I’m off in a day or two?”

“Off?”

“Yes: there is nothing to keep me here this winter, so I thought I would take a run back to Ohio to visit some folks. I have been wanting to for a long time, but I haven’t been able to get off until now. So this evening I’m going to have a house warming, a farewell, and a Christmas celebration all in one.”

“Leave me out John, thank you just the same.”

“Not much. You’ll have to come. It isn’t a party — only a few friends. You see, that little house I recently acquired has never had a house warming, and I would like to give it one before I leave.”

“Who is to be there?”

“Why, there’s you and me and Clara and her folks — that’s all.”

“Count me out What are you up to, anyway? Haven’t

you heard the village gossip for the past week that Clara and I have separated — we’ve quit.”

“Oh, yes; I’ve heard some talk; but children’s quarrels are soon made up.”

“Look here, John; this is no joking matter. You had better mind your own business.”

“I am making this my business now, and I think I have a right to. I called on Clara last evening — “

“Yes; I have already heard you did. It seems to me that you are butting in pretty soon.”

John arose from the chair which he had drawn to the stove and walked around to where he could better look his companion in the face. “See here, Harve,” he said with no display of anger, “you don’t know what you are talking about.”

“Yes I do — leave me alone.”

“Do you remember that day when you and I came to an understanding about Clara?”

“What about it?”

“That was a fair and square proposition, wasn’t it?” “I guess so.”

“You won. From the day Clara became yours, I have never coveted her, have never seriously thought of her as anything but your wife. Your wife she is now; yours, I believe, she always will be.” He seated himself again, and the other turned, in better humor to listen, as John continued:

“We are old friends. You have always believed in me, so you have said. There is a terrible crisis in your life, and you need some help if you are not to go to wreck and ruin. I am going to help you and Clara to get together again.”

“What! to fight and quarrel again, and live in a very hell!”

“You are going to quit that; both of you are going to come to your senses.”

“But you don’t know what a temper she has. It’s God’s truth, John, I’ve tried and tried until I could not put up with it longer.”

“I thought you were a man, but I see you are a weakling. Can’t stand it ! — such a trifling thing as a woman’s temper. Shame on you. Why, every woman has a temper — I wouldn’t give much for one that hasn’t. She has an inborn right to display it at times, to the testing of the men — and yet here is big, strong Harvey Woodson downed and put out by a little woman’s temper.”

“You place your words well by saying, a little woman’s temper; but it’s no joke even if you think so.”

“I don’t think so. Let’s get down to business, then. What did you marry Clara for?”

As the reply was only a surprised start, John continued: “I fear you married, as many young fellows do, simply to get, not to give. It’s getting we’re all after. First we want love, that indefinable something that can only be made clear in the experiences of life; then we want our meals cooked, our shirts washed, our stockings darned. These and a hundred other things a young man expects, but what does he give? Think a moment, Harvey Woodson, and be absolutely honest with yourself, what had you planned to give your wife. Oh, yes, I know; you thought of love and home and protection and such things, but you were to share them. What one thing have you given your wife that has been untinged by selfishness? Think about it. Wasn’t everything to be so nice and comfortable and easy? All your sacrifices were to bring you a hundred fold of bliss. You were to give a bit of your muscular exertion for all the gifts and graces of the spirit. Don’t you know that there are things vastly more precious than houses or lands, or fine dresses, or good things to eat? Some of these are a forbearing spirit, a willingness to forgive, a blindness to faults — and above all, a manly strength upon which a woman’s weakness may rest and feel secure.”

“Go on, I am listening.”

“Another thing — and this is above all other reasons why you and Clara should cleave to each other, you two are husband and wife, not only for the few years of this life, but for the eternities beyond. You are now laying the foundation for the future. In the beginning of your married life you may have thought of each other as nearly perfect beings. You know better now, and that knowledge has upset you both, instead of being a help to you for the better adjusting of affairs. What then is the part of brave men and women? Why, to face the music, to meet the conditions and help each other to do the right. This will have to be done sooner or later. You can’t afford to be at outs with your wife, for sometime, somewhere in the future, all secrets must come to light, all wrongs must be righted. Begin now — believe me, it is easier than after a while.”

The young husband arose and turned his face to the darkened window. He stood there for some minutes, both men being silent. Then he turned and asked, “What did Clara say last night?”

“She did not say much. I did most of the talking, as I am doing here with you; but she told me a lot without words. She is suffering, and she needs you.”

“Does she care — does she want me?”

“Above everything else — just as you want her. You two can’t deceive yourselves, even as you can’t deceive me.”

“No; I guess not.”

“Come here, Harve; I want to tell you something about myself that you do not know.” The younger man sat down again. “You knew when you and I came out here together that I had been a married man, but had lost my wife.”

“Yes; so you told me.”

“My wife and I were together just a little longer than you and Clara have been. During that brief time, I grieve to say, we were often unwise enough to quarrel. I had a hasty temper, and she, (bless her memory) did not have wisdom enough to meet it in the right way. One day we fell out more violently than usual, and for days we went about without speaking to each other. Then she was smitten with a disease we knew very little about. I neglected her, thinking it was only a spell of stubbornness. I awoke when it was too late. She died within a week.”

The ticking of the little clock on the shelf was all the sound that could be heard for a few moments. Then John resumed: “Harve, I don’t want you to have any such experience. That’s another reason why I have come to you.”

“I thank you,” said Harvey in a subdued tone. The conversation continued for another hour, Harvey taking more of a part. As they talked the spirit of depression departed, as it always does when the spirit of Christmas enters.

“Now,” said John, “I must hurry home, as I have much to do to prepare for my little party this evening. Promise me you’ll come.”

Harvey thought for a moment, then said, “Yes, I’ll come, and be glad of the chance.”

“Good. Be early. Come prepared to stay with me all night. You ought to be glad to get out of this pesky place. Oh, if your mother could see those dishes!”

John Engleman had planned a party for Christmas Eve; here it was noon of the day, and all he had done was to invite the guests. He rode back to the village in great haste, planning further as he galloped along. The idea of the party had popped into his head when he had been talking to Clara — it seemed he was saying and doing all kinds of uncommon things on the spur of the moment. John had not even completely finished moving into his new quarters, so the first thing he did was to take a wagon load of furniture from the old house to the new one. He secured the services of a next-door neighbor to do some rapid house cleaning, and then he engaged Widow Brown, a near-by friend, as cook. After consulting her, he visited the village meat market. Turkeys or geese there were none, but there was plenty of tender meat. At the grocery store, John procured, besides the staples, some rosy apples and golden oranges. After the third trip with the market basket, there was enough on the kitchen table to feed a large company, for John had doubled the amounts suggested by the cook.

After seeing that things were well under way, John rode out to the Ridge after some greens with which he gave his rooms a holiday appearance. How busy the three workers were! John was here and there, carrying water and wood, putting up a stove and blackening it, doing errands first for one and then for the other of his helpers. The short winter day closed with the cleaning completed, and the cooking and baking well under way.

Promptly at the appointed time Harvey Woodson appeared, clean-shaven, fresh, smiling, and dressed in his best. He surveyed John’s new home closely, never having been in it before.

“You must be going to get married,” suggested Harvey good-naturedly.

“Oh, no; somebody else is.”

The two men looked at each other understandingly. Harvey and Clara had gone through a form of marriage, but there was yet the binding power of the spirit to sanctify the union.

“I bought this house three months ago,” explained John, as he took his friend through the rooms. “I had to take it on a debt; but what to do with it now, I don’t know. I would willingly let someone live in it rent free just to take care of it.” “Live in it yourself, John. It’s cozy.”

“But I’m going away.” The announcement had been made, so, of course, he would have to carry the program out. This going away, being one of those spur-of-the-moment ideas, was yet somewhat vague; but really he had nothing to keep him at home, during the winter, at least. And yes; why not ask as a favor that Harvey and Clara live in and take care of his house until his return. They had none of their own.

“The fellow that built this house had an eye to his business,” said John. “Here in the large front room is a dandy fireplace. See that carved mantle. That’s his own work. He used to be a carver in the old country, I understand; but out here, in this wild and woolly west, he would starve on that business. The kitchen is fine—and everything so handy— isn’t it Mrs. Brown?” The busy cook agreed with him. “And here’s the bed room,” continued the guide;” there’s a big window in the south wall to admit plenty of sunshine. You’ll have to excuse the bareness of the rooms, as you see I haven’t had time to fix them up as I should have liked. You remain here a few moments while I go into the kitchen.”

Harvey seated himself in the cosy-corner, fitted up where the bed should have been. A new, prettily-colored carpet covered the floor. White curtains hung before the window. The walls were tinted and adorned with a few pictures, among which were one of John Engleman, and another of a sweet-faced young woman —his wife. A small parlor stove warmed the room pleasantly, and a shaded lamp cast a warm glow over everything. Harvey felt quite at home.

In a few moments John came back. “Harvey,” said he, “this room is dedicated to a sacred purpose. You are my guest, and I want you to do exactly as I tell you.”

“Yes; what is it?”

“When the folks come, I want you to remain in this room. I will send someone in to you and close the door after her. You two are not to come out until I call you, for I shall be busy with the table, and you would be in the way. Do you understand?”

“Yes— but— “

“Hush, here they are now — you just do as I tell you.” Footsteps were at the door, and John hastened to meet his company.

“Come right in, folks,” he gave them welcome. “A merry Christmas to you all.”

He took Mr. Waite’s hat and coat and laid them on a chair in the corner. Then he assisted Mrs. Waite with her wraps. He placed two chairs before the fire and bade the father and the mother to be seated.

Clara had taken off her wraps and stood holding them in her arms, not knowing what to do with them. It was for a moment only. John, adding her mother’s wraps to her own, touched her on the arm, and led her towards the bed-room door.

“You’ll find a place to hang them, in here,” he said; then added in a lower voice, “Harvey is waiting for you in the room.” Then before she had time to consider what action to take because of this announcement, she was pushed gently into the room and the door closed behind her.

Then how busy John Engleman became! To have seen him, one would have supposed that Widow Brown had neglected everything until the last moment, and there was a big company to provide for. He piled more cedar logs into the fireplace, rushed back and forth from the kitchen to the front room, fetched more water and wood from without, gave some finishing touches to the setting of the table, until the cook had to tell him to mind his own business, which was to entertain his company. This he tried to do, but he could not sit still long at a time. Thirty minutes passed. No sound came from the other room loud enough to be heard above the crackling of the cedar. At the end of an hour, the cook announced that all was about ready, but John was slow in asking his guests to sit up. At length, very deliberately, he went to the door and knocked on it.

“Do you want to come out now and have your supper?” he asked.

“Yes,” came from within.

“Do you promise to be good children in the future?”

“Yes,” said a voice which was plainly Harvey’s.

“And the little girl?” continued the catechiser.

“I promise,” said Clara.

“All right, then” — whereupon John opened wide the door and the two stepped out. They were laughing, but that was only a disguise to cover up traces of tears that had been.

“Here’s your places/’ directed the host. “We must hurry and sit down, or the supper will be cold, so saith the cook. Come, Mrs. Brown, put everything you can on the table, and sit down with us. We’ll wait on each other as we always do.”

Everything was “just lovely”: the meat was juicy and tender; the mashed potatoes loomed like mountains of frozen cream; the pie melted in the mouth; the pudding had a “moreish” taste. The cook was happy, the father and mother were happy, Harvey and Clara were happy, and John Engleman — well, his was a peculiar kind of happiness, hard to describe. If the unseen Spirit of Christmas which formed part of that company could have spoken to mortal ears, the secret might have been told.

“Yes, I’m going East in a few days,” John was saying, “and I think I shall also take a trip across the water to old England. Very likely I shall be away all winter; but Harvey and Clara here are going to be so kind as to live in my house and keep it straight until I come back.”

Clara stopped eating her pie to listen in amazement.

“You know,” John went on without apparently noticing her, “a house runs down very much when it is not occupied. It will be a great favor to me, Harvey, if you two will live right here and look after it.”

Harvey looked at Clara as if asking her to reply, and she looked at John. What she saw in John’s face, and what thoughts were in her mind, again no one but the Spirit of Christmas might tell, but what he saw in that shining face turned to him repaid him again for what he- was doing.

“Do you really want us to?” she asked.

“Really and truly. This place and everything in it is yours until I come back. Will you keep it in trust for me?”

“Yes, if Harvey is willing?” said she.

“We’ll do the best we can,” he replied.

“Good— that’s right— the best you can, for e and for each other. Remember that, always and always— but here, you two newly married people, you have hardly eaten anything— have another piece of pie.”