It was the day before Christmas—an Oregon Christmas. It had rained mistily at dawn; but at ten o’clock the clouds had parted and moved away reluctantly. There was a blue and dazzling sky overhead. The rain-drops still sparkled on the windows and on the green grass, and the last roses and chrysanthemums hung their beautiful heads heavily beneath them; but there was to be no more rain. Oregon City’s mighty barometer—the Falls of the Willamette—was declaring to her people by her softened roar that the morrow was to be fair. Mrs. Orville Palmer was in the large kitchen making preparations for the Christmas dinner. She was a picture of dainty loveliness in a lavender gingham dress, made with a full skirt and a shirred waist and big leg-o’-mutton sleeves. A white apron was tied neatly around her waist. Her husband came in, and paused to put his arm around her and kiss her. She was stirring something on the stove, holding her dress aside with one hand. “It’s goin’ to be a fine Christmas, Emarine,” he said, and sighed unconsciously. There was a wistful and careworn look on his face. “Beautiful!” said Emarine, vivaciously. “Goin’ down-town, Orville?” “Yes. Want anything?” “Why, the cranberries ain’t come yet. I’m so uneasy about ’em. They’d ought to ’a’ b’en stooed long ago. I like ’em cooked down an’ strained to a jell. I don’t see what ails them groc’rymen! Sh’u’d think they c’u’d get around some time before doomsday! Then, I want—here, you’d best set it down.” She took a pencil and a slip of paper from a shelf over the table and gave them to him. “Now, let me see.” She commenced stirring again, with two little wrinkles between her brows. “A ha’f a pound o’ citron; a ha’f a pound o’ candied peel; two pounds o’ cur’nts; two pounds o’ raisins—git ’em stunned, Orville; a pound o’ sooet—make ’em give you some that ain’t all strings! A box o’ Norther’ Spy apples; a ha’f a dozen lemons; four-bits’ worth o’ walnuts or a’monds, whichever’s freshest; a pint o’ Puget Sound oysters fer the dressin’, an’ a bunch o’ cel’ry. You stop by an’ see about the turkey, Orville; an’ I wish you’d run in ’s you go by mother’s an’ tell her to come up as soon as she can. She’d ought to be here now.” Her husband smiled as he finished the list. “You’re a wonderful housekeeper, Emarine,” he said. Then his face grew grave. “Got a present fer your mother yet, Emarine?” “Oh, yes, long ago. I got ’er a black shawl down t’ Charman’s. She’s b’en wantin’ one.” He shuffled his feet about a little. “Unh-hunh. Yuh—that is—I reckon yuh ain’t picked out any present fer—fer my mother, have yuh, Emarine?” “No,” she replied, with cold distinctness. “I ain’t.” There was a silence. Emarine stirred briskly. The lines grew deeper between her brows. Two red spots came into her cheeks. “I hope the rain ain’t spoilt the chrysyanthums,” she said then, with an air of ridding herself of a disagreeable subject.