A telegram of just one word has come from Duncan, dated at Calgary. It said: “Coming.” I could feel a little tremble in my knees as I read it. He must be better, or he’d never be able to travel. To-morrow will be Christmas Day, but we’ve decided to postpone all celebration until the kiddies’ daddy is on the scene. It will never seem much like Christmas to us Eskimos, at eighty-five in the shade. And we’re temporarily subduing that red-ink day to the eyes of the children by carefully secreting in one of Peter’s clothes-closets each and every present that has come for them.
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