I stood looking at us, tired to death with what we’d been a-making, but sending ’em off with a real lot of love and satisfaction wrapped up in ’em, too. And I thought how we covered up Christmas so deep with work that we hardly ever had time to get at the real Christmas down underneath all the stitches. And yet, there we were, having dropped everything else that we were doing, just because it was Christmas week, and coming from all over town with little things we had made, and standing there in line to send ’em off to folks. And I thought of all the other folks in all the other post-offices in the world, doing the self-same thing that night. And I felt all kind of nice and glowing to think I was one of ’em. Only I did begin to wish we were enough civilized to get the glow some other way. “I guess it’s going to take a long time,” says Mis’ Holcomb, patient. “Stubby, you needn’t wait if you’ve anything else to do.” “Oh,” says Stubby, important, “I’ve got a present to mail.” A present to mail! When Sodality had been feeding him for five weeks among us! Mis’ Holcomb and I exchanged our next two glances. “What is it, Stubby?” asks Mis’ Holcomb, that is some direct by nature and never denies herself at it. He looked up kind of shy--he’s a nice little boy, when anybody has any time to pay any attention to him. “It’s just this,” he said, and took it out from under his coat. It was about as big as a candy box, and he’d wrapped it up himself, and the string was so loose and the paper was so tore that they weren’t going to stay by each other past two stations. “Mercy!” says Mis’ Holcomb, “leave me tie it up for you.” She took it. And in order to tie it she had to untie it. And when she done that, what was in it come all untied. And she see, and we both of us see, what was in it. It was a great big pink rose, fresh and real, with a lot of soaking wet paper wrapped round the stem. “Stubby Mosher!” says Mis’ Holcomb straight out, “where’d _you_ get this?” He colored up. “I bought it to the greenhouse,” he says. “I’m a-goin’ to shovel paths till the first of March to pay for it. And they gimme one path ahead for postage.” “Who you sending it to?” says Mis’ Holcomb, blunt--and I kind of wished she wouldn’t, because the folks right round us was beginning to listen. “To mother,” says Stubby. Mis’ Holcomb near dropped the box. “My land!” she said, “why didn’t you _take_ it to her? You’re goin’ to-morrow to spend Christmas with her, ain’t you?” Stubby shook his head and swallowed some. “I ain’t going,” he told her. “Ain’t going!” Mis’ Holcomb says. “_Why_ ain’t you goin’, I’d like to know, when you was promised?” “My brother wrote he can’t,” said Stubby. “He’s had some money to pay. He can’t send me. I----” He stopped, and looked down on the floor as hard as ever he could, and swallowed like lightning. “Well, but that’s how we got her to go there,” Mis’ Holcomb says. “We promised her you’d come.”