‘Ought I to put off my children’s party?’ Laura asked, anxiously, the day before Christmas Eve. ‘I should be very sorry to disappoint the poor little things, but,’ here her voice faltered, ‘if I thought John was going to be worse----’ ‘My dear Mrs. Treverton, he is not going to be worse; in fact, he is rapidly mending. Didn’t I tell you the pulse was stronger this morning? He will be well in a few days, I hope; but I shall keep him in his room to the end of the week, and I shall not allow him to take part in any Christmas festivities. As for your children’s party, if you can prevent the noise of it reaching him, there is no reason in the world why it should be postponed.’ ‘The servants’ hall is quite on the other side of the house,’ said Laura. ‘I don’t think the noise can possibly reach the next room.’ This conversation between Mrs. Treverton and the doctor had taken place in John Treverton’s study--the panelled room adjoining his bedroom--the room in which he and Laura had first met. ‘Then that’s all you need care about,’ replied Mr. Morton. Laura had been her husband’s only nurse throughout his illness. She had sat with him all day, and watched him through the night, taking snatches of slumber at intervals on the comfortable old sofa at the foot of the big old-fashioned four-post bed. In vain had John Treverton urged the danger of injury to her own health from the fatigue involved in this tender care of him. She told him she had never felt better or stronger, and never enjoyed more refreshing sleep than on the roomy old sofa. They had been happy together, even in this time of anxiety. It was Laura’s delight to read aloud to the invalid, to write his letters, to pour out his medicine, to minister to all the trivial wants of an illness that caused at its most only a sense of languor and helplessness. Her only regret with regard to the children’s party was that for this one evening she must be for the most part absent from the sick room. Instead of reading aloud to her husband, she must give her mind to ‘Blind Man’s Buff,’ and all her energies to ‘Thread my Needle.’ The winter twilight came gently down, bringing a light snow shower with it, and at four o’clock Laura was seated at the little Chippendale table by her husband’s bed, drinking tea with him for the first time since the beginning of his illness. He had been sitting up for a few hours in the middle of the day, and was now lying outside the bed, wrapped warmly in his long fur-bordered dressing-gown. He was intensely interested in the children’s party, and asked Laura all about her arrangements for entertaining her guests.