At seven Mrs. Martins bells jingled at the door and Theodora flew out. "Go right in and get warm, Auntie," she said. "I'll take Ned away and unharness him."
"It's a bitterly cold night." Mrs. Martin stood for a moment and seemed to want to shake out the cold. There was a note of discouragement in her voice. "I'm afraid it means no Christmas for the children tomorrow," she thought sadly, as she led Ned away to the stable. When she returned to the kitchen Mrs. Martin was sitting by the fire, her face in her chilled hand.
"Auntie—oh, Auntie, don't!" exclaimed Theodora impulsively. It was such a rare thing to see her plucky, resolute little aunt in tears. "You're cold and tired—I'll have a nice cup of tea for you in a trice."
"No, it isn't that," said Mrs. Martin brokenly "It was seeing those stockings hanging there." She waved at the fireplace without looking. "Theodora, I couldn't get a thing for the children—not a single thing. Mr. Porter would only give forty dollars for the colt, and when all the bills were paid there was barely enough left for such necessaries as we must have." She stopped for a moment, seemingly as if still stunned. "I suppose I ought to feel thankful I could get those." She shook her head. "But the thought of the children's disappointment tomorrow is more than I can bear. It would have been better to have told them long ago, but I kept building on getting more for the colt." She shook her head resignedly. "Well, it's weak and foolish to give way like this. We'd better both take a cup of tea and go to bed. It will save fuel."
When Theodora went up to her little room, she took a small box from her table and carried it to the window. In it was a very pretty little gold locket hung on a narrow blue ribbon. She held it tenderly in her fingers, and looked out over the moonlit prairie with a very sober face. It was the locket Donald had given her just before he started for the Klondike. She had never thought she could do such a thing. It was almost the only thing she had to remind her of Donald—handsome, merry, impulsive, warmhearted Donald, who had gone away four years ago with a smile on his bonny face and splendid hope in his heart.
"Here's a locket for you, Gift o' God," he had said gaily—he had such a dear loving habit of calling her by the beautiful meaning of her name. "I couldn't afford a chain too, but when I come back I'll bring you a rope of Klondike nuggets for it."
Then he had gone away. For two years letters had come regularly. He wrote that he had joined a prospecting party to a remote wilderness. After that was silence, deepening into anguish of suspense that finally hopelessness. A rumour came that Donald Prentice was dead. After all, none had returned from the expedition he had joined. Her locket was doubly dear to her now.
But Aunt Elizabeth had always been so good and loving and kind. Could she not make the sacrifice for her sake? Of course she could and of course she would. She took out of the locket the bits of hair—her mother's and Donald's—which it contained, then hastily--and not tearlessly--donned her warmest cap and wraps because it was only three miles to Spencer; she could easily walk it in an hour and, as it was Christmas Eve, the shops would be open late. She must walk, for Ned could not be taken out again, and the mare's foot was sore. Besides, Aunt Elizabeth must not know until the whole deed was done.
As stealthily as if she were bound on some nefarious errand, Theodora slipped downstairs and out of the house until she was hurrying along the trail in the moonlight. The great dazzling prairie surrounded her, the mystery and splendour of the northern night all about her. It was very calm and cold, but Theodora walked so briskly that she kept warm. The trail from Red Butte to Spencer was a lonely one. Mr. Lurgan's house, halfway to town, was the only dwelling on it.
When finally she reached Spencer, she made her way at once to the only jewelery store the little town contained. Mr. Benson, its owner, had been a friend of her uncle's, and Theodora felt sure that he would buy her locket. Still, her heart beat quickly, and her breath came and went uncomfortably fast as she went into the store. If he wouldn't buy it, there would be no Christmas for the children at Red Butte. She couldn't think of it.
"Good evening, Miss Theodora," said Mr. Benson briskly. "What can I do for you?"
"I'm afraid I'm not a very welcome sort of customer, Mr. Benson," said Theodora, with an uncertain smile. "I want to sell, not buy. Could you—will you buy this locket?"
Mr. Benson took up the locket and examined it. "I don't often buy second-hand stuff as a rule," he said, after some reflection, "but I don't mind obliging you, Miss Theodora. I'll give you four dollars for it?"
The locket had cost a great deal more than that, but four dollars would get what she wanted, and she dared not ask for more. In a few minutes, with four crisp new bills in her purse, Theodora was hurrying to the toy store, and half an hour later she was on her way back to Red Butte with as many parcels as she could carry—Jimmy's skates, two lovely dolls for the twins, packages of nuts and candy, and a nice plump turkey. Theodora beguiled her lonely tramp by picturing the children's joy in the morning.
About a quarter of a mile past Mr. Lurgan's house the trail curved suddenly about a bluff of poplars. As Theodora rounded the turn she halted in amazement. Almost at her feet the body of a man was lying across the road, a man clad in a big fur coat, and a fur cap pulled well down over his forehead and ears. Almost all of him that could be seen was a full bushy beard.
"It's a bitterly cold night." Mrs. Martin stood for a moment and seemed to want to shake out the cold. There was a note of discouragement in her voice. "I'm afraid it means no Christmas for the children tomorrow," she thought sadly, as she led Ned away to the stable. When she returned to the kitchen Mrs. Martin was sitting by the fire, her face in her chilled hand.
"Auntie—oh, Auntie, don't!" exclaimed Theodora impulsively. It was such a rare thing to see her plucky, resolute little aunt in tears. "You're cold and tired—I'll have a nice cup of tea for you in a trice."
"No, it isn't that," said Mrs. Martin brokenly "It was seeing those stockings hanging there." She waved at the fireplace without looking. "Theodora, I couldn't get a thing for the children—not a single thing. Mr. Porter would only give forty dollars for the colt, and when all the bills were paid there was barely enough left for such necessaries as we must have." She stopped for a moment, seemingly as if still stunned. "I suppose I ought to feel thankful I could get those." She shook her head. "But the thought of the children's disappointment tomorrow is more than I can bear. It would have been better to have told them long ago, but I kept building on getting more for the colt." She shook her head resignedly. "Well, it's weak and foolish to give way like this. We'd better both take a cup of tea and go to bed. It will save fuel."
When Theodora went up to her little room, she took a small box from her table and carried it to the window. In it was a very pretty little gold locket hung on a narrow blue ribbon. She held it tenderly in her fingers, and looked out over the moonlit prairie with a very sober face. It was the locket Donald had given her just before he started for the Klondike. She had never thought she could do such a thing. It was almost the only thing she had to remind her of Donald—handsome, merry, impulsive, warmhearted Donald, who had gone away four years ago with a smile on his bonny face and splendid hope in his heart.
"Here's a locket for you, Gift o' God," he had said gaily—he had such a dear loving habit of calling her by the beautiful meaning of her name. "I couldn't afford a chain too, but when I come back I'll bring you a rope of Klondike nuggets for it."
Then he had gone away. For two years letters had come regularly. He wrote that he had joined a prospecting party to a remote wilderness. After that was silence, deepening into anguish of suspense that finally hopelessness. A rumour came that Donald Prentice was dead. After all, none had returned from the expedition he had joined. Her locket was doubly dear to her now.
But Aunt Elizabeth had always been so good and loving and kind. Could she not make the sacrifice for her sake? Of course she could and of course she would. She took out of the locket the bits of hair—her mother's and Donald's—which it contained, then hastily--and not tearlessly--donned her warmest cap and wraps because it was only three miles to Spencer; she could easily walk it in an hour and, as it was Christmas Eve, the shops would be open late. She must walk, for Ned could not be taken out again, and the mare's foot was sore. Besides, Aunt Elizabeth must not know until the whole deed was done.
As stealthily as if she were bound on some nefarious errand, Theodora slipped downstairs and out of the house until she was hurrying along the trail in the moonlight. The great dazzling prairie surrounded her, the mystery and splendour of the northern night all about her. It was very calm and cold, but Theodora walked so briskly that she kept warm. The trail from Red Butte to Spencer was a lonely one. Mr. Lurgan's house, halfway to town, was the only dwelling on it.
When finally she reached Spencer, she made her way at once to the only jewelery store the little town contained. Mr. Benson, its owner, had been a friend of her uncle's, and Theodora felt sure that he would buy her locket. Still, her heart beat quickly, and her breath came and went uncomfortably fast as she went into the store. If he wouldn't buy it, there would be no Christmas for the children at Red Butte. She couldn't think of it.
"Good evening, Miss Theodora," said Mr. Benson briskly. "What can I do for you?"
"I'm afraid I'm not a very welcome sort of customer, Mr. Benson," said Theodora, with an uncertain smile. "I want to sell, not buy. Could you—will you buy this locket?"
Mr. Benson took up the locket and examined it. "I don't often buy second-hand stuff as a rule," he said, after some reflection, "but I don't mind obliging you, Miss Theodora. I'll give you four dollars for it?"
The locket had cost a great deal more than that, but four dollars would get what she wanted, and she dared not ask for more. In a few minutes, with four crisp new bills in her purse, Theodora was hurrying to the toy store, and half an hour later she was on her way back to Red Butte with as many parcels as she could carry—Jimmy's skates, two lovely dolls for the twins, packages of nuts and candy, and a nice plump turkey. Theodora beguiled her lonely tramp by picturing the children's joy in the morning.
About a quarter of a mile past Mr. Lurgan's house the trail curved suddenly about a bluff of poplars. As Theodora rounded the turn she halted in amazement. Almost at her feet the body of a man was lying across the road, a man clad in a big fur coat, and a fur cap pulled well down over his forehead and ears. Almost all of him that could be seen was a full bushy beard.
She had no idea who he was, or where he had come from, but she realized that he was unconscious, and that he would speedily freeze to death if help were not brought. The footprints of a horse galloping across the prairie suggested a fall and a runaway, but Theodora did not waste time in speculation. She ran back at full speed to Mr. Lurgan's, and roused the household. In a few minutes Mr. Lurgan and his son had hitched a horse to a wood-sleigh, and hurried down the trail to the unfortunate man.
___________________________
End of story on Monday, although you've likely got in mind where all of this is going. Remember, "Christmas at Red Butte" is a classic, like A Christmas Carol, and it's somehow so wonderfully "prairie."
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