He opened his eyes slowly.  The sun was blinding, and he blinked.  Mother McNeil and the doctor were standing at the foot of the bed, and as he rubbed his eyes they laughed.

“It’s a merry Christmas you’re to have, my son, after all, and it’s wanting to be up and after it you are, if I’m a judge of looks.”  And Van Landing’s hand, holding the coverlid close to his neck, was patted understandingly by Mother McNeil.  “Last night the doctor was a bit worried about your head—­you took your time in coming to—­but I didn’t believe it was as bad as he feared, and it’s well it wasn’t, for it’s a grand day in which to be living, and you’ll need your head.  Is it coffee or tea, now, that you like best for breakfast?  And an egg and a bit of toast, doctor, I think will taste well.  I’ll get them.”  And without answer Mother McNeil was gone.

The doctor sat down, felt his patient’s pulse, took his temperature, investigated the cut on the forehead, then got up.  “You’re all right.”  His tone was one of gruff relief.  “One inch nearer your temple, however—­You can get up if you wish.  Good day.”  And he, too, was gone before Van Landing could ask a question or say a word of thanks.

It was bewildering, perplexing, embarrassing, and for a moment he hesitated.  Then he got up.  He was absurdly shaky, but his head was clear, and in his heart humility that was new and sweet.  The day was great, and the sun was shining as on yesterday one would not have dreamed it could ever shine again.  Going over to the door, he locked it and hurriedly began to dress.  His clothes had a rough, dry appearance that made them hardly recognizable, and to get on his shoes, which evidently had been dried near the furnace, was difficult.  In the small mirror over the bureau, as he tied his cravat, his face reflected varying emotions:  disgust at his soiled collar, relief that he was up again, and gratitude that made a certain cynicism, of late becoming too well defined, fade into quiet purpose.

Unlocking the door, he went back to the window and looked across at the long row of houses, as alike as shriveled peas in a dry pod, and down on the snow-covered streets.  Brilliantly the sun touched here and there a bit of cornice below a dazzling gleaming roof, and threw rays of rainbow light on window-pane and iron rail, outlined or hidden under frozen foam; and the dirt and ugliness of the usual day were lost in the white hush of mystery.

Not for long would there be transforming effect of the storm, however.  Already the snow was being shoveled from door-steps and sidewalks, and the laughter of the boys as they worked, the scraping of their shovels, the rumble of wagon-wheels, which were making deep brown ruts in the middle of the street, reached him with the muffled sound of something far away, and, watching, he missed no detail of what was going on below.

“Goodness gracious!  I’ve almost cried myself to death!  And she found you—­found you!”