"And you sent my man all the way to the wire," she asked, "and grubbed him three whole days waitin' round, just for that?" "Yes, sure," said Guthrie. "G-a-w-d!" said Hanlon's Mary. And, the next week the patient was even better, and the next week, better still. Then, one morning after days and days of seemingly interminable silence and stupor, she opened her eyes perfectly wide and asked Guthrie abruptly: "Whom did I marry? You or Dr. Andrews?" And Guthrie in a sudden perversity of shock and embarrassment lied grimly: "Dr. Andrews!" "I didn't either!--it was you!" came the immediate, not too strong, but distinctly temperish response. Something in the new vitality of the tone made Guthrie stop whatever he was doing and eye her suspiciously. "How long have you been conscious like this?" he queried in surprise. The faintest perceptible flicker of mischief crossed her haggard face. "Three--days," she acknowledged. "Then why--?" began Guthrie. "Because I--didn't know--just what to call you," she faltered. After that no power on earth apparently could induce any further speech from her for another three days. Solemn and big-eyed and totally unfathomable, she lay watching Guthrie's every gesture, every movement. From the door to the chair, from the chair to the window, from the window back to the chair, she lay estimating him altogether disconcertingly. Across the hand that steadied her drinking glass, she studied the poise of his lean, firm wrist. Out from the shadow-mystery of her heavy lashes, she questioned the ultimate value of each frown or smile. And then, suddenly--just as abruptly as the first time she had spoken: "What day is it?" she asked. "It's Christmas," said Guthrie softly. "O-h!--O-h!--O-h!" she exclaimed, very slowly. Then with increasing interest and wonder, "Is there snow on the ground?" she whispered. "No," said Guthrie. "Is it full moon to-night?" she questioned. "No," said Guthrie. "Is there any small, freckle-faced, alto-voiced choir boy in the house, trotting around humming funny little tail-ends of anthems and carols, while he's buckling up his skates?" she stammered. "No," said Guthrie. "Are there any old, white-haired loving people cuddled in the chimney corner?" she persisted. "No," said Guthrie. "Isn't there--any Christmas tree?" "No." "Aren't there even any presents?" "No." "Oh!" she smiled. "Isn't it funny!" "What's funny?" asked Guthrie perplexedly. The eyes that lifted to his were brimming full of a strange, wistful sort of astonishment. "Why, it's funny," she faltered, "it's funny--that without--any of these things--that I thought were so necessary to it--I've found my 'perfectly happy Christmas.'" Then, almost bashfully, her wisp-like fingers went straying out toward the soft silken folds of the precious pink sash which she kept always close to her pillow.