"Yes," he assented, "that's right. We've got to settle that," and at this they fell silent. "There's Hopkins's," Chris said presently, nodding toward the home of the neighbour who had waited their coming to Jacob's cottage. "But she'll hev to be over there lots to-day and to-morrow. And she was kep' up so late it don't hardly seem as if we'd ought to stop and ask her." "No," Allen said, "I donno as it does, really." "There's Cripps's," she suggested a little farther on, "but they ain't up yet. I donno's 'twould do to roust 'em up." "No," Allen agreed, "best not do that, I guess." Christopha looked over the great fields. "My!" she said, "you'll miss her--miss thinkin' of her bein' somewheres. Allen! Where do you s'pose she is?" "I thought o' that," said Allen, soberly. "Goodness!" said Christopha, and shivered, and suddenly drew the child close to her. He was sleeping again. And it was so, with his little body between them, that she could no longer keep her hand warm in Allen's greatcoat pocket. But above the child's head her eyes and Allen's would meet, and in that hour the two had never been so near. Nearer they were than in the talk about the new house, and the presents, and the dinners and suppers and breakfasts together. They passed the farmhouses that looked asleep, and the farmhouses that looked watchfully awake while their owners slept. It would not be well to knock at these, still and sombre-windowed. And though there were lights at the Moneys' and at the Howells' and at the Hubbelthwait farm, and even at Bess and Opie's, their gates, by common consent, were also passed. Nor did they stop at the Topladys'. "They're real, regular people with a grown son," Chris said of them vaguely, "and it don't seem hardly fair to give 'em little John, too!" "Little John," Allen said over wonderingly. When they called him that the child seemed suddenly a person, like themselves. Their eyes met above his head. "Allen!" Chris said. "What? What is it?" he asked eagerly. "Could--do you think--could _we_?" she demanded. "My!" he answered, "I been a-wishin'--" Involuntarily he drew rein. They were on the rise by the Corner church at the edge of the village. The village, rhythmic crest of wall and shallow of lawn, lay below them, and near the little Triangle park would be their waiting house. "Did you mean have him live with us?" Allen made sure. "Yes, I did," Chris said, "if we had the money." "Well!" said the boy, "well, I guess _that'll_ be all right!" "How much _she'd_ of liked it," said Chris. "Wouldn't she, though," Allen assented; "wouldn't she? And you heard what she said--that about keepin' him from bein'--wicked? Chrissie--_could_ we, you and me? This little fellow?" Chris lifted her face and nodded. "I ain't afraid," she said simply. "I ain't either," her husband said. As if, in this new future, there were less need of fear than in the future which had sought to "try to be happy and keep ourselves happy."