moment. She had a habit of saying a little silent prayer about the simplest

everyday things, and now she whispered: “Please God, make him think I am still

pretty.”

The door opened and Jim stepped in and closed it. He looked thin and very

serious. Poor fellow, he was only twenty-two—and to be burdened with a family!

He needed a new overcoat and he was without gloves.

Jim stopped inside the door, as immovable as a setter at the scent of quail. His

eyes were fixed upon Della, and there was an expression in them that she could

not read, and it terrified her. It was not anger, nor surprise, nor disapproval,

nor horror, nor any of the sentiments that she had been prepared for. He simply

stared at her fixedly with that peculiar expression on his face.

Della wriggled off the table and went for him.

“Jim, darling,” she cried, “don’t look at me that way. I had my hair cut off and

sold because I couldn’t have lived through Christmas without giving you a

present. It’ll grow out again—you won’t mind, will you? I just had to do it. My

hair grows awfully fast. Say ‘Merry Christmas!’ Jim, and let’s be happy. You

don’t know what a nice—what a beautiful, nice gift I’ve got for you.”

“You’ve cut off your hair?” asked Jim, laboriously, as if he had not arrived at

that patent fact yet even after the hardest mental labor.