And when the reluctant tinman went on his way again, she returned to spread the fabulous result before her mother.  There were sugars and spices and whatnot.  And though—­woe worth the day!—­she found that the sum yielded only half what once it would, still, by drinking her own tea in its acritude, they would do admirably; for tea even little Jane required as her tonic, and without it felt like nothing but a mollusk.

All this was very well, so far as it went; but the thrifty housekeeper soon found that it went no way at all.  Those for whom she made her efforts wanted none of their results.  She would have given all she had in the world to help these suffering beings; but her little cooking and concocting were all that she could do, and those they disregarded utterly.  When in the dull forenoon she would have enlivened Vivia with her precious elderberry-wine, that a connoisseur must taste twice before telling from purplest Port, and Vivia only wet her lips at it, or when she carried Ray a roasted apple, its burnished sides bursting with juice and clotted with cream, and the boy glanced at it and never saw it, little Jane felt ready to cry; and she set to bethinking herself seriously if there were nothing else to be done.

One day, it was the day before Christmas, Jane took up to Ray’s room one of her trifles, a whip, whose suave and frothy nothingness was piled over the sweet plum-pulp at bottom.  Ray lay on the outside of the bed, with his thick poncho over him; he looked at her and at her tray, played with the teaspoon a moment, then rolled upon his side and shut his eyes.  Little Jane took a half-dozen steps about the room, reached the door, hesitated, and came back.

“Ray,” said she, under her breath and with tears in her voice, “I wish you wouldn’t do so.  You don’t know how it makes me feel.  I can’t do anything for you but bring whips and custards; and you won’t touch those.”

Ray turned and looked up at her.

“Do you care, Janet?” said he; and, rising on one arm, he lifted the glass, and finished its delicate sweetmeat with a gust.

But as he threw himself back, little Jane took heart of grace once more.

“Ray, dear,” said she, “I don’t think it’s right for you to stay here alone in the cold.  Won’t you come down where it’s warm?  It’s so much more cheerful by the fire.”

“I don’t want to be cheerful,” said Ray.

Janet looked at the door, then summoned her forces, and, holding the high bedpost with both hands, said,—­

“Ray, if God sent you any trouble, He never meant for you to take it so.  You are repulsing Him every day.  You are straightening yourself against Him.  You are like a log on His hands.  Can’t you bend beneath it?  Dear Ray, you need comfort, but you never will find it till you take up your life and your duties again, and come down among us.”

“What duties have I?” said Ray, hoarsely, looking along his footless limb.  “The sooner my life ends, oh, the better!  I want no comfort!”