And then you kissed her wrinkled, soft check and ran away thinking, after all, grandmother was pretty good. Good? Can a woman stick to a man through sixty-odd years--and keep his linen and his broadcloth--and bear him children--and make them into fine wives and husbands--and take them back to her bosom when their mates turn against them--and raise a bunch of riotous grandchildren--and manage such a household as ours with never a complaint--get up at five o'clock every morning and sit up till half-after nine o'clock every night--busy all the time--and nurse her own and other folks' ailments without a murmur--and submerge self completely in her constant doing for others--can a frail woman so live for eighty-six years and be anything less than good? And then, at the end of the long journey she was still trudging patiently and gladly along, side by side with Grandfather--making less fuss over the years--old pain in her knees than we make now over a splinter in a finger--going daily and uncomplainingly about her manifold duties. And at night, about an hour before bedtime, she would sit down in the black-upholstered rocker almost behind the big base burner--her first quiet moment in all the long day--head resting against the chair's high back--and doze and listen to the fitful conversation in the room, or to someone reading--giving everything, demanding nothing--as had been her wont all the long years! And Christmas eve ... (I'll have to go a bit slow now) ... On Christmas eve, you remember, when out-of-doors the big snow-flakes were slowly and softly fluttering down, grandmother would get the huge Bible and her treasure-box and bring them up to the little round table covered with its red cloth ... And you'd get a chair and come up close ('cause you knew what was happening) ... Then she would read you a wonderful story out of the Bible about the love of God so great that He sent His only-begotten Son to be a Light unto the World ... and then she'd go down into that little old card-board treasure-box and find some Christmas carols printed in beautiful colors on lace-edged cards folded up just like a fan. She would look down at you over the top of her specs and tell you how the street minstrels in England used to stand out in the snow and sing, and be brought into the house and given a warm mug and a bite to eat--going from house to house all through the early night ... And then she would close her eyes and begin to sing the dear old carols ... with the tremble in her voice ... and tapping on the table with her finger-ends in rhythm ... and Memory's tears dropping on the wrinkled checks ... and the tremulous voice, still soft and sweet, chanting: "God rest you, merrie gentlemen! Let nothing you dismay; For Jesus Christ, our Saviour, Was born on Christmas Day!" ............. Aye and amen, dear soul! God rest you--and He does! When Day is Done