When they rode away that Christmas Eve on their second bridal tour, the setting sun, smiling through the trees and slanting across their pathway, fell on them like a benediction.  Slowly and dreamily they went on their way, willing that this ride over crackling twigs and rustling leaves, with the soft, light of the dying day closing about them, should go on for ever.  The earnest admiring gaze of the husband brought girlish blushes to the face of the bride.  He was drawing contrasts; the sweet humble face and the simple adornings of her who rode by his side, made a fairer picture than the queenly lady of haughty airs and magnificent attire, who seemed to have passed out of existence.

Never was fairer Christmas tide than this, in that merry household; those memorable evergreens festooning it as a bower—­and a romance—­a poem—­lived out—­not written.  There were no costly gifts, and yet, gifts the most precious—­two souls given back to each other.  If the joy bells in their hearts but had voice, their silvery ringing would have filled all the land.

“Vida, can you be happy here until spring?” Mr. Eldred asked, a few days after Christmas.  “My work would suffer, I fear, were I to leave it now.”

“Why leave it in the spring, dear Thane?  Let us stay here always, in this beautiful, quiet place, where the people love you so, and—­I did not tell you yet,” Vida said, half shyly, “but my money is not mine any more.  I gave it all to the dear Lord, I would like to build a pretty church with some of it, and here we will stay and work, you and I together.  I can help you now, Thane—­a little.  Don’t you like my plan?” she said, anxiously, when he did not speak.

“My darling, you have made me so happy that I could not speak,” he said, after a little.  “I wish it above all things—­to go on with my work here, and a new church is so much needed.  How strange that you should be willing to stay, and that we can work together!  Oh, Vida!  I prayed—­with faith, I thought—­but I never dreamed of an hour like this; surely ’It has not entered into our hearts to conceive the things which God has prepared for them that love Him—­in this life.’”

There was another sensation in an audience when the pastor of the log church brought in his wife, for naught so fair and sweet had ever gladdened their rustic eyes before.  The singing that day was mostly solo, or at least, duets.  Her pure, birdlike voice filled the church, and what could they do but listen, wondering meanwhile whether it might not be a lark, or an angel come down for a season.

When a teeming, busy town covered the prairie, and the heel of agriculture and commerce crushed out the wild flowers, the log church was preserved as a memorial, while the spire of the handsome new one was eagerly pointed out, its story treasured and handed down to children’s children.

These two spent their happy lives ministering to this simple people, their hearts and hands so filled with work that they had no time to sigh for the privileges of more cultivated surroundings.  The pastor’s wife was the warm friend and sympathizer of the common people, and her name was singularly appropriate—­Vida—­well-beloved.