And so I drove homeward in the late twilight, and as I came up the lane, the door of my home opened, the light within gleamed kindly and warmly across the darkened yard:  and Harriet was there on the step, waiting.

II

A DAY OF PLEASANT BREAD

They have all gone now, and the house is very still.  For the first time this evening I can hear the familiar sound of the December wind blustering about the house, complaining at closed doorways, asking questions at the shutters; but here in my room, under the green reading lamp, it is warm and still.  Although Harriet has closed the doors, covered the coals in the fireplace, and said good-night, the atmosphere still seems to tingle with the electricity of genial humanity.

The parting voice of the Scotch Preacher still booms in my ears: 

“This,” said he, as he was going out of our door, wrapped like an Arctic highlander in cloaks and tippets, “has been a day of pleasant bread.”

One of the very pleasantest I can remember!

I sometimes think we expect too much of Christmas Day.  We try to crowd into it the long arrears of kindliness and humanity of the whole year.  As for me, I like to take my Christmas a little at a time, all through the year.  And thus I drift along into the holidays—­let them overtake me unexpectedly—­waking up some fine morning and suddenly saying to myself: 

“Why, this is Christmas Day!”

How the discovery makes one bound out of his bed!  What a new sense of life and adventure it imparts!  Almost anything may happen on a day like this—­one thinks.  I may meet friends I have not seen before in years.  Who knows?  I may discover that this is a far better and kindlier world than I had ever dreamed it could be.

[Illustration:  “Merry Christmas, Harriet!”]

So I sing out to Harriet as I go down: 

“Merry Christmas, Harriet”—­and not waiting for her sleepy reply I go down and build the biggest, warmest, friendliest fire of the year.  Then I get into my thick coat and mittens and open the back door.  All around the sill, deep on the step, and all about the yard lies the drifted snow:  it has transformed my wood pile into a grotesque Indian mound, and it frosts the roof of my barn like a wedding cake.  I go at it lustily with my wooden shovel, clearing out a pathway to the gate.

Cold, too; one of the coldest mornings we’ve had—­but clear and very still.  The sun is just coming up over the hill near Horace’s farm.  From Horace’s chimney the white wood-smoke of an early fire rises straight upward, all golden with sunshine, into the measureless blue of the sky—­on its way to heaven, for aught I know.  When I reach the gate my blood is racing warmly in my veins.  I straighten my back, thrust my shovel into the snow pile, and shout at the top of my voice, for I can no longer contain myself: