_Rome,
Christmas Day._
In my dreams last night were all sorts of Christmas things--home and
mistletoe and you under it, my love. On my breakfast-tray this morning
lay your lovely cuff-links. A thousand thanks,--I shall wear them
every day.
The Christmas decorations at church were holly and palms. The greens
were dotted with oranges and apples, the high pillars wreathed with
ivy, the chancel and altar banked with flowers, for the Reverend Nevin
is very artistic in his arrangement of such things. I was so full of
gratitude and thanksgiving, so placidly content that even when an
awkward worshipper knocked my silk hat (Gilet’s shining pride) on the
floor and rumpled and broke it, I didn’t mutter, or even think a
wicked thing!
I said a little prayer for you, Polly dear. Then I hurried home, for
there were so many things to attend to,--as Checkers would remark,
“Merry Christmas, but not a dish washed!”
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