One trouble, however, shot its slanting bolts athwart the shining warmth of that opening day and marred its perfection, and that was the thought of her father. There were a few loose, broken fragments of rock to reckon with upon the ledges, and one place where hands did as much work as toes. Wood. Her fingers passed over a cunningly wrought surface of wood, with just the correct amount of protrusion, the precise colours of dyed leather, and cleverly gilded surfaces and neatly painted lettering. Hobson was not 147 amused by the situation, which handled wrongly, could lose him his job. Her knees almost sank beneath her as she raised the latch of the front door and looked out. Part 7 That was two days before Christmas Eve. Before Wood had time to inquire into the cause of this sound, his attention was diverted by a man, who rushed past the entry with the swiftness of desperation. Yet before she turned once more to resume her flight she schooled herself with an effort to look where it had happened. Above the housetops it was different. “You must have heard—have you—oh, tell me, won’t you?” she begged. “John! Welcome! Happy Thanksgiving!” Cathy cried, ushering him deeper into the house. Birthdays just ain’t the same once you get old kiddo.
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