Granny is quite feeble; so she takes a nap each afternoon in the great rocking chair, with its padded sheepskin back and bottom; and from the noise she is making seems to be enjoying it. I also hear an intimate voice, though I rarely see my friend. He is the cricket of our hearth; and now since the days are short, begins his chirping when it is time for me to feed the chickens, milk the cow and look after Silas, the old mule. We have no earthly use for that mule, but I cannot let him go. He was in the prime of his days of usefulness when I first saw the light; and now when I go out to feed him, there is a look in his old gray-lashed eyes that speaks to my heart with the voice of an old and trusting friend. When people live as we do, the fowls of the barnyard and the creatures of the manger become their friends. They speak with a look; they come towards you with a caress; they bind themselves to your heart with an untimid trust. That old mule’s look approaches worship; and his trust shall not be vain. Grandad is not here. I stand at the door and see his grave on a knoll a little way up the mountain side. It is hedged about by a white picket fence, which I repaint each spring. Last evening as I was wreathing it with holly and mistletoe I thought how, when I was a little girl, he carried me over the rough places and when he went to the store on Red Bird or to town, brought back something he knew would delight a little girl. Then, how the last year or two before he died, I partly paid the debt by ministering unto him. As I stood beside his grave it seemed his spirit spoke to me of unutterable things. * * I have finished with the chickens, the cow and the old mule. We have had supper. The cricket is chirping away quite comfortably in his cozy corner under the warm hearthstones and I hear the click of Granny’s knitting needles. My thoughts have been mainly of you since your letter came. Joys are the scarlet buds and tears are the white flowers of life. Your letter has made this a Christmas of white flowers; yet it brought a gift filigreed with happiness, as tears are wont to be, except those of despair. It seems sadness lives next door neighbor to a very pure happiness. I can pray and weep and the tears are a holy joy. I think if God would speak to me I would shed tears of joy; and if he comes tonight and tells me he will make you well and bring you back to Kentucky, I shall shed tears of great joy. That you return in health is one of the hopes my life lives on. You will understand, when I say I have always looked upon you, much as I imagine the old mule feels towards me. For a long time there was little in my life, but that little was all joy. Then you came our way and introduced me to real dolls and to books. While I have outgrown the dolls, I have many cold but safe friends in my books; friends you leave at your convenience and return to at your pleasure.