12 
HOUSE & GARDEN 
do it. And I’d send that darling child to a good school forsisters slipped into the center of it, into the drawing room, 
three years; the Tefft School would do it for that; they make 
terms for special cases. And then trust Johnny to take care 
of himself through college! He’s bright, and there’s not a 
lazy bone in him. It would make the whole difference in a 
whole life. Well, here’s my street, and I must rush home. 
We’re having the children’s tree at five — why won’t you and 
Bertha come ? I’d love to have you. Good-bye. I’ll look for 
you at five.” 
It was like the passing of a benevolent whirlwind. 
T’LL run out to the box and mail it,” said Bertha, picking 
X up the Lewissohn letter, as they reached the hall, but 
Alice took it from her. 
“No. Wait till to-night. It will get to him just as soon,” 
she said. And Bertha, to whom Alice was an all-wise Provi¬ 
dence, agreed. 
For two hours of that Christmas afternoon Alice Sefton, 
shut in her room, fought with the beasts. There was the mas¬ 
todon of selfishness whom we all know intimately. “Why 
should you give up what you want, what you have denied 
yourself to get?” inquired the mastodon. “It’s quixotic; it’s 
grotesque; it’s out of drawing,” added the mastodon. 
And a snake of old pride and resentment writhed in beside 
selfishness. “John Erskine quarreled with you; he said you 
might grow to be a miser like your father, and you were 
angry and sent him away,” the snake hissed. “Why should 
you take his responsibilities?” 
And an inherited beast, a very small germ of a beast whis¬ 
pered insistent words about caution and thrift, and the neces¬ 
sity of guarding money, the danger of throwing it away. 
For two hours she sat and fought with such. 
To the mastodon she said, as the boy preacher had said in 
the cathedral, “Nothing makes joy like giving it away; the 
quixotic people are the blessed people.” 
And to the serpent of pride she whispered, “We quarreled, 
but I loved him — I love him now. I think he kept the thought 
of me in his heart always. This is his boy.” 
And the inchoate miserliness was answered with a straight 
stone from her sling. “I will not be a miser. I will not ruin 
my life with the curse which I have seen work its cursing.” 
Back and back they came, the menagerie which, assorted 
one way and another, one always knows; and the woman 
fighting them alone, as each must fight, grew stronger in the 
fray. At last she stood up and drew a victorious breath. 
“John Erskine,” she said, “you were pretty right. It is hard 
for me to give up money. But now, through that boy, I will 
prove you’re wrong, my dear. I’ll show that I’m not a miser. 
I’ll never be a miser.” 
It was a hard fought field. But Alice Sefton came out 
victor, and in a tremendous hurry to get the deed done be¬ 
fore the beasts could re¬ 
new attacks, she threw 
on hat and coat and sped 
down stairs. 
“Bertha, come,” she 
called; and on the way 
to the Anderson’s she 
told her plan. 
Bertha was enthusias¬ 
tic, as always with 
Alice’s plans. “To tell 
the truth, dearie, I never 
did care so much for 
that old mountain of a 
cabinet,” was her unex¬ 
pected statement. “I just 
thought you were set on 
it—so of course” - 
‘But Bertha,’ 
remon¬ 
strated the other, “you 
ought not” — and laugh¬ 
ed. It was useless to try 
to make over Bertha. 
A S the door opened 
at the Anderson’s 
all the house overflowed 
with music, sweeping 
through the house and 
out into the street. The 
and there the children stood ringed, big-eyed, about the tree 
and the whole company were singing as people sing at Christ¬ 
mas. 
John Erskine’s boy stood close to the tree; he held little 
Bessie Anderson’s hand and chanted with his young head 
thrown back, with all his soul. Alice Sefton stared at him, 
and the child met her eyes, and a light of friendly recogni¬ 
tion came into his and he smiled, singing. 
Suddenly a great thrill caught her. This might have been 
her boy; she was going to do something which would make 
him, a little, her boy. “If anyone wants, to-day, to know 
great joy, he or she will take in the hand the thing that one 
has planned for, and saved for and looked forward to — and 
give it away. It is the sure way to set life singing.” 
The words of the tall boy’s sermon came back to her 
sharply and with a rush of feeling she knew that they were 
true. 
When, after a while, she got Emily Anderson in a corner 
and told her, the look that came into the fat face was an epoch 
in Alice Sefton’s life. No one had ever looked like that at 
her before. The good woman’s arms were around her in a 
second and ready tears, not her own, were on Alice’s face. 
“My dear! It’s too wonderful! It’s too good to be true. 
What an angel of unselfishness you are! You’re so generous 
and so selfless and so — but I can’t say it!” And behold, there 
were several of the beasts whacked on the head at one swoop 
by Emily. “You’ll never, never regret this, Alice,” Emily 
spoke then from the depths of her soul. “You’ll have a big 
reward. It will make you happy.” 
And Alice, the reserved, answered gently, “I know it, Emily. 
I’m happy already.” And she snatched Bertha, astonished, 
from a conversation, and decamped to the street. 
B 1 
At a small, dark place downtown, the cabinet had stood there, hidden in a litter 
of things, for four or five years 
>UT Christmas was not yet over. The bell burred that 
evening about eight o’clock, and when the little maid 
opened the door a fresh voice demanded “Miss Sefton.” 
Johnny Erskine, excited, bright-eyed, stood in the room. He 
was breathing fast, embarrassed, shy, smiling. He came 
straight to Alice. “Miss Sefton,” he spoke, “Tante Emily 
told mother and me.” The boy gasped a bit, frightened, but 
determined. “About — what you’re going to do for me. Gosh!” 
exploded the boy. “And mother said — I might come and say 
— thank you. I—I thank you — a lot,” the boy suddenly bent 
down from his slim height and put an arm around Alice’s 
shoulder, protectingly, and kissed her. “I’ll — try to do every¬ 
thing you’d—like, so you won’t be- — ashamed of me. It’s 
awfully good of you,” the boy said, and straightened up and 
stood looking horribly embarrassed. 
With that Alice, stirred, radiant, somehow knew how to talk 
to him, and in five minutes the three were chattering together, 
and Alice was learning 
at every instant from 
his unconscious senten¬ 
ces how wise a thing she 
had done, and how much 
needed, and how fine 
and strong a little soul 
was this that she was 
helping to its own. 
Late that evening in 
her room she drew aside 
the curtains and pushed 
up the sash and let in the 
sweet, frosty Christmas 
night. A new moon 
shone through the lace- 
work of the trees and 
the shadows of the lace- 
work lay intricate on 
moonlit snow. Stars 
burned in a deep sky. 
“It came upon the 
midnight clear, 
That glorious song of 
old,” 
she whispered, and knew 
that the tall boy had 
spoken true and that the 
“sure, sharp road” had 
brought her to happiness. 
