The letter was a secret office which he attended to himself. It took many days. But he was very happy afterward, and delivered it to Mrs. Schwalm and Mrs. Krantz, who were to get a stamp and mail it. “What we going to do with it?” whispered Mrs. Schwalm. “Burn it?” “No. Open it.” However, Mrs. Schwalm, who was known to be sentimental, opposed this. “But it’s got to be answered.” This was so. Mrs. Krantz cumulated her arguments. “He’ll ask for the answer a dozen times a day till you’re crazy!” “Well, anyhow, let’s wait a little. He may die any day,” was the way Mrs. Schwalm temporized. “You’re interfering with the Lord’s business!” chided the curious Mrs. Krantz, finally. III “VERGISSNICHTMEIN” So, while they went away with this letter which was never to be mailed, old Liebereich sat by the fire in the fireplace which he had built, and rocked gently, and sang old German songs, and would not go to bed, but fell asleep there. And even in his sleep he was found singing: “Blau ist ein Blümlein Das heiszt Vergissnichtmein—” None of us will ever agree with those old German wives, I think. How could old Liebereich ever be better off—how could any one—than singing old German songs by the fire and waiting for the coming of his wife—and Christmas? And he got an answer to his letter. It told him very briefly not to worry, that she would be home at Christmas. It was signed “Emmy.” For the wives had said among themselves that God would understand. Just as if they understood God! If He should take him, all would be well. If not, He would find a way. It was because they thought God would understand that they had opened that pitiful letter of old Liebereich’s. He spoke of his loneliness; how he had waited for her without complaint; how, now, he could wait no longer. At the end he told her, with the imperiousness of a husband, that she _must_ come home. They read this; they saw the childish blots; they knew where his half-palsied hands had missed the line, then recovered it; finally they read the boyish signature—with dry eyes. Then they wrote that reply. I hope that neither you nor I could have done this—with dry eyes. But the night before Christmas arrived, and old Liebereich’s wife had not come. Nevertheless, he had no doubt. No one had ever lied to him except Mrs. Krantz. And he had never lied. And here was her letter. There was her name. They came in and found him reading the letter. “My Emmy never fooled me yit,” he told them exultingly. “She’ll come. Only she’s late a little.” He put the letter in their eyes. “Don’t it say she’ll be home _at_ Christmas?” And I hope that neither you nor I have ever had that happen to us—such a letter thrust into our eyes!