Meanwhile, rain succeeded rain.  Fred Starratt knew that escape was impossible under these conditions, but he let Monet chatter away and continue his hoarding.  Thus they passed Thanksgiving, and suddenly Fred felt that Christmas would soon be upon them, with all its heartbreaking melancholy.

As Christmas drew near a bitter restlessness began to pervade Ward 6.  The rain fell in torrents for days.  There was little chance for fresh air or exercise except in the bull pen, which was provided with a shed that ran the length of the wall.  Into this dismal and jail-like yard poured the entire human wreckage of Fairview.  Fred and Monet went with the others for one or two days, but finally Monet said: 

“Let’s walk in the rain ... anything would be better than this.”

And so the next day, waiting until a pelting shower had merged gradually into a faint mist, the two took a quick-step run about the parade ground.  They came back splashed with mud and dripping wet, but their cheeks glowed and their hearts beat quickly.  After that, no matter how violent the downpour, they managed to take a turn in the open.  Sometimes they circled the grounds repeatedly.  Again, if the rain proved too drenching, one short run was all they could achieve.

At the end of a week of such heroic exercising Monet said, significantly: 

“You see how well I am standing this!  Every day toughens us up...  We ought to be leaving soon.”

“After Christmas,” Fred conceded, briefly.

There followed a brief respite of clear, crisp days, warming to mellowness at noon.  After the midday meal everyone crawled out into the sunlight, standing in little shivering groups, while Monet played upon his violin.  The cracked inventor, pulling his cardboard box on its ridiculous spools, stopped to listen; Weeping Willow forgot his grief and almost achieved a smile.  Only the Emperor of Japan continued his pacing back and forth, his royal gloom untouched by any responsive chord.

But the reaction from this sedative of music was in every case violent.  The remainder of the afternoon passed in tragic unquiet.  One day Harrison called Fred aside.  The assistant superintendent was daily yielding more and more to Fred’s judgment.

“What do you think about a Christmas tree for Ward Six?”

For a moment Fred was uncertain.  He knew the poignance of disturbing memories.  But, in the end, he felt that perhaps the floodgate of grief had best be lifted.  He knew by this time the cleansing solace of tears.

“We’ve never done it before,” Harrison went on.

“There has been a prejudice against bringing old days back too clearly to these wretches...  But Monet’s been playing his music and they seem to like that.”