Courtland had never enjoyed spending money
so much in all his life. He only wished he could get back to the city
for a couple of hours and buy a lot more things.
To paint the picture of Mother Marshall when she sat on her new
air-cushions and counted her spoons and forks--real silver forks beyond
all her dreamings!--to show Father Marshall, as he wiped his spectacles
and bent, beaming, over the encyclopedias or rested his gray head back
against the cushions! Ah! That would be the work of an artist who could
catch the glory that shines deeper than faces and reaches souls! As for
Courtland, he was too much taken up watching Bonnie's face when she
opened her books, looking deep into her eyes as she looked up from the
little velvet case where the watch ticked softly into her wondering
ears; seeing the breathlessness with which she lifted the flowers from
their bed among the ferns and placed them reverently in jars and
pitchers around the room.
It was a wonderful Christmas! The first real Christmas Courtland had
ever known. Sitting in the dim firelight between dusk and darkness,
watching Bonnie at the piano, listening to the tender Christmas music
she was playing, joining his sweet tenor in with her clear soprano now
and then, Courtland suddenly thought of Tennelly, off at Palm Beach,
doing the correct thing in wedding trips with Gila. Poor Tennelly! How
little he would be getting of the real joy of Christmas! How little he
would understand the wonderful peace that settled down in the heart of
his friend when, later, they all knelt in the firelight, and Father
Marshall prayed, as if he were talking to One who stood there close
beside him, whose companionship had been a life experience.
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