No word of love had been spoken, but the two weeks had made over his life; and he went back to his work with a definite object, a hope stronger than ambition, and, set to it as music to words, came insistently another hope, a dream that he did not let himself dwell on—­a longing to make enough money to pay off the mortgage and put Fairfield in order, and live and work there all his life—­with Shelby.  That was where the thrill of the thought came in, but the place was very dear to him in itself.

The months went, and the point of living now were the mails from the South, and the feast days were the days that brought letters from Fairfield.  He had promised to go back for a week at Christmas, and he worked and hoarded all the months between with a thought which he did not formulate, but which ruled his down-sitting and his up-rising, the thought that if he did well and his bank account grew enough to justify it he might, when he saw her at Christmas, tell her what he hoped; ask her—­he finished the thought with a jump of his heart.  He never worked harder or better, and each check that came in meant a step toward the promised land; and each seemed for the joy that was in it to quicken his pace, to lengthen his stride, to strengthen his touch.  Early in November he found one night when he came to his rooms two letters waiting for him with the welcome Kentucky postmark.  They were in John Fairfield’s handwriting and in his daughter’s, and “place aux dames” ruled rather than respect to age, for he opened Shelby’s first.  His eyes smiling, he read it.

“I am knitting you a diamond necklace for Christmas,” she wrote.  “Will you like that?  Or be sure to write me if you’d rather have me hunt in the garden and dig you up a box of money.  I’ll tell you—­there ought to be luck in the day, for it was hidden on Christmas and it should be found on Christmas; so on Christmas morning we’ll have another look, and if you find it I’ll catch you ‘Christmas gif’’ as the darkies do, and you’ll have to give it to me, and if I find it I’ll give it to you; so that’s fair, isn’t it?  Anyway—­” and Philip’s eyes jumped from line to line, devouring the clear, running writing.  “So bring a little present with you, please—­just a tiny something for me,” she ended, “for I’m certainly going to catch you ‘Christmas gif’.’”

Philip folded the letter back into its envelope and put it in his pocket, and his heart felt warmer for the scrap of paper over it.  Then he cut John Fairfield’s open dreamily, his mind still on the words he had read, on the threat—­“I’m going to catch you ‘Christmas gif’.’” What was there good enough to give her?  Himself, he thought humbly, very far from it.  With a sigh that was not sad he dismissed the question and began to read the other letter.  He stood reading it by the fading light from the window, his hat thrown by him on a chair, his overcoat still on, and, as he read, the smile died from his face.  With drawn