Through the first problem of learning to weld her nature to his wisely; through the perils of bearing children and the agony of seeing some of them pass away; through the ambition of having him rise in his profession and through the ideal of making his home an earthly paradise; through loneliness when he was away and joy whenever he came back,--upon her whole life had rested the wintry benediction of that mystical phrase: “_Bride of the Mistletoe!_” * * * * * She turned away now, starting once more downward toward the evergreens. He was quickly at her side. “What do you suppose Harold and Elizabeth are up to about this time?” he asked, with a good-humored jerk of his head toward the distant town. “At least to something mischievous, whatever it is,” she replied. “They begged to be allowed to stay until the shop windows were lighted; they have seen the shop windows two or three times already this week: there is no great marvel for them now in shop windows. Permission to stay late may be a blind to come home early. They are determined, from what I have overheard, to put an end this year to the parental house mysteries of Christmas. They are crossing the boundary between the first childhood and the second. But if it be possible, I wish everything to be kept once more just as it has always been; let it be so for my sake!” “And I wish it for your sake,” he replied heartily; “and for my purposes.” After a moment of silence he asked: “How large a Tree must it be this year?” “It will have to be large,” she replied; and she began to count those for whom the Tree this year was meant. First she called the names of the two children they had lost. Gifts for these were every year hung on the boughs. She mentioned their names now, and then she continued counting: “Harold and Elizabeth are four. You and I make six. After the family come Herbert and Elsie, your best friend the doctor’s children. Then the servants--long strong bottom branches for the servants! Allow for the other children who are to make up the Christmas party: ten children have been invited, ten children have accepted, ten children will arrive. The ten will bring with them some unimportant parents; you can judge.” “That will do for size,” he said, laughing. “Now the kind: spruce--larch--hemlock--pine--which shall it be?” “It shall be none of them!” she answered, after a little waiting. “It shall be the Christmas Tree of the uttermost North where the reindeer are harnessed and the Great White Sleigh starts--fir. The old Christmas stories like fir best. Old faiths seem to lodge in it longest. And deepest mystery darkens the heart of it,” she added. “Fir it shall be!” he said. “Choose the tree.” “I have chosen.” She stopped and delicately touched his wrist with the finger tips of one white-gloved hand, bidding him stand beside her. “That one,” she said, pointing down.