Beacon of the hoped-for strand:Horror broods above the waters,
Horror broods above the land."
And she said aloud to the boy, "Our torch shall not go out, Tommy,—come down, come down, darling, with mamma." But all through the day horrid lines from the same poem came back to her. Why did she ever learn it! Why, but because dear Tom gave her the book himself; and this was his own version, as he sent it to her from the camp in the valley,—
"Yes, 'tis he! although he perished,
Still his sacred troth he cherished."
"Why did Tom write it for me?"
"And they trickle, lightly playing
O'er a corpse upon the sand."
"What a fool I am! Come, Tommy. Come, Matty, my darling. Mamma will tell you a story. Once there was a little boy, and he had two kittens. And he named one Buff and one Muff"— But this could not last for ever. Sundown came. And then Laura and Tommy climbed their own tower,—and she lighted her own lantern, as she called it. Sickly and sad through the storm, she could see the sister lantern burning bravely. And that was all she could see in the sullen whiteness. "Now, Tommy, my darling, we will come and have some supper." "And while the bridegroom tarried, they all slumbered and slept." "Yes, 'tis he; although he perished, still his sacred troth he cherished." "Come, Tommy,—come Tommy,—come, Tommy, let me tell you a story."
But the children had their supper,—asking terrible questions about papa,—questions which who should answer? But she could busy herself about giving them their oatmeal, and treating them to ginger-snaps, because it was Christmas Eve. Nay, she kept her courage, when Tommy asked if Santa Claus would come in the boat with papa. She fairly loitered over the undressing them. Little witches, how pretty they were in their flannel nightgowns! And Tommy kissed her, and gave her—ah me!—one more kiss for papa. And in two minutes they were asleep. It would have been better if they could have kept awake one minute longer. Now she was really alone. And very soon seven o'clock has come. She does not dare leave the clock-work at the outer lantern a minute longer. Tom and Mipples wind the works every four hours, and now they have run five. One more look at her darlings. Shall she ever see them again in this world? Now to the duty next her hand!
Yes, the wind is as fierce as ever! A point more to the north, Laura notices. She has no child to carry now. She tumbles once in the drift. But Laura has rolled in snow before. The pile at the door is three feet thick. But she works down to the latch,—and even her poor numb hand conquers it,—and it gives way. How nice and warm the tower is! and how well the lights burn! Can they be of any use this night to anybody? O my God, grant that they be of use to him!
She has wound them now. She has floundered into the snow again. Two or three falls on her way home,—but no danger that she loses the line of march. The light above her own house is before her. So she has only to aim at that. Home again! And now to wait for five hours,—and then to wind that light again—at midnight!
"And at midnight there was a cry made"—"oh dear!—if he would come,—I would not ask for any cry!"—
And Laura got down her choice inlaid box, that Jem brought her from sea,—and which held her treasures of treasures. And the dear girl did the best thing she could have done. She took these treasures out.—You know what they were, do not you? They were every letter Tom Cutts ever wrote her—from the first boy note in print,—"Laura,—these hedgehog quills are for you. I killed him. Tom." And Laura opened them all,—and read them one by one, each twice,—and put them back, in their order, without folding, into the box. At ten she stopped,—and worked her way upstairs into her own lantern,—and wound its works again. She tried to persuade herself that there was less wind,—did persuade herself so. But the snow was as steady as ever. Down the tower-stairs again,—and then a few blessed minutes brooding over Matty's crib, and dear little Tom who has kicked himself right athwart her own bed where she had laid him. Darlings! they are so lovely, their father must come home to see them! Back then to her kitchen fire. There are more of dear Tom's letters yet. How manly they are,—and how womanly. She will read them all!—will she ever dare to read them all again?
Yes,—she reads them all,—each one twice over,—and his soldier diary,—which John Wildair saved and sent home, and, as she lays it down, the clock strikes twelve. Christmas day is born!—
"And at midnight there was a cry made, Behold, the bridegroom cometh." Laura fairly repeated this aloud. She knew that the other carcel must be wound again. She dressed herself for the fight thoroughly. She ran in and trusted herself to kiss the children. She opened the lee-door again, and crept round again into the storm,—familiar now with such adventure. Did the surf beat as fiercely on the rocks? Surely not. But then the tide is now so low! So she came to her other tower, crept up and wound her clock-work up again, wiped off, or tried to wipe off, what she thought was mist gathering on the glasses, groped down the stairway, and looked up on the steady light above her own home. And the Christmas text came back to her. "The star went before them, and stood above the place where the young child was."
"A light to lighten the Gentiles,—and the glory of my people Israel!"
"By the way of the sea,"—and this Laura almost shouted aloud,—"Galilee of the Gentiles, the people who sat in darkness saw a great light, and to them who sat in the region and shadow of death light is sprung up." "Grant it, merciful Father,—grant it for these poor children!" And she almost ran through the heavy drifts, till she found the shelter again of her friendly tower. Her darlings had not turned in their bed, since she left them there.
And after this Laura was at rest. She took down her Bible, and read the Christmas chapters. It was as if she had never known before what darkness was,—or what the Light was, when it came. She took her Hymn Book and read all the Christmas Hymns. She took her Keble,—and read every poem for Advent and the hymn for Christmas morning. She knew this by heart long ago. Then she took Bishop Ken's "Christian Year,"—which Tom had given for her last birthday present,—and set herself bravely to committing his "Christmas Day" to memory:—
"Celestial harps, prepare
To sound your loftiest air;
You choral angels at the throne,
Your customary hymns postpone;"
and thus, dear girl, she kept herself from thinking even of the wretched Hero and Leander lines, till her clock struck three. Upstairs then to her own tower, and to look out upon the night. The sister flame was steady. The wind was all hushed. But the snow was as steady, right and left, behind and before. Down again, one more look at the darlings, and then, as she walked up and down her little kitchen, she repeated the verses she had learned, and then sat down to—
"You with your heavenly ray
Gild the expanse this day;
"You with your heavenly ray
Gild—the expanse—this day;
"You—with—your—heavenly—ray"—
Dear Laura, bless God, she is asleep. "He giveth his beloved sleep."
Her head is thrown back on the projecting wing of grandmamma's tall easy-chair, her arms are resting relaxed on its comfortable arms, her lips just open with a smile, as she dreams of something in the kingdom of God's heaven, when, as the lazy day just begins to grow gray, Tom, white with snow to his middle, holding the boat's lantern before him as he steals into her kitchen, crosses the room, and
