“It wasn’t that at all,” she averred. “I was crying for joy. That
picture was a sign.”
“A sign?” I repeated.
“Yes,” she declared, “a sign that we shall get her back in time for
Christmas. I’m going to start and get ready right away.”
At first I was glad of the diversion. Helen had the nursery put in
order as if she expected Amy the next day, hauled over all the child’s
clothes and was in a bustling state of happy expectancy. She went
vigorously about her preparation for a Christmas celebration, planned
a Christmas Eve dinner for our brothers and sisters and their husbands
and wives, and a children’s party afterwards with a big tree and a
profusion of goodies and gifts.
“You see,” she explained, “everyone will want their own Christmas at
home. So shall we, for we’ll just want to gloat over Amy all day. We
won’t want them on Christmas any more than they’ll want us. But this
way we can all be together and celebrate and rejoice over our good
luck.”
She was as elated and convinced as if it was a certainty. For a while
her occupation with preparations was good for her, but she was so
forehanded that she was ready a week ahead of time and had not a detail
left to arrange. I dreaded a reaction, but her artificial exaltation
continued unabated. All the more I feared the inevitable disappointment
and was genuinely concerned for her reason. The fixed idea that that
accidental coincidence was a prophecy and a guarantee dominated her
totally. I was really afraid that the shock of the reality might kill
her. I did not want to dissipate her happy delusion, but I could not
but try to prepare her for the certain blow. I talked cautiously in
wide circles around what I wanted and I did not want to say.