CHAPTER Three.

"We've been talking enough about me. What about you?"

The Delaney four were sitting before the open fire, mugs of hot chocolate in their hands, laughter filling the room as it had their lives. Christine, from her favorite spot on the rug, had been telling of the strangeness of city life and the unusual people she had met over the seven months she had been on her own. Her parents and brother had been content to listen, enjoying every minute of her lively accounts. But now she paused and looked up at her older brother, inviting him by her expression to share some stories of his own adventures.

He stirred a bit restlessly, and though he obviously was trying to keep the spirit of the evening, Elizabeth saw the underlying tension.

His grin seemed forced, but his tone was light. "My experiences haven't been as hilarious as yours, I assure you," said Henry, and he reached out to ruffle his sister's dark curls. Elizabeth wondered if Christine, with her sensitivity to her brother's moods, would catch the tension he was attempting to cover.

"We've had enough hilarious," insisted Christine. "Tell me about the North. I've missed it so."

A melancholy suddenly filled her voice. It was then that Elizabeth realized just how far from her roots Christine had been taken.

Christine brought her knees up and hugged them, her head bent forward so her long dark hair framed her face. She continued, nostalgia making her words sound plaintive, "Do the northern lights still put on a color-dance in the sky? Does the snow still crunch beneath your moccasins? Does the timber wolf still reign as king of the forest? Do the mornings still sing with the newness of life?"

Elizabeth could not see her face, but she could read in her voice the longing, the loneliness. What had it really been like for this wilderness girl to be consigned to the city? It had been her own choice, Elizabeth reminded herself.

"I think you should go back-and see," Henry answered.

Christine straightened her shoulders and shook her head. "There's no going back," she said, and her voice sounded both strong and resigned. "The world moves forward-not backward. What was-is no more."

How did we ever get onto this morbid train of thought? wondered Elizabeth. Just a moment ago we were all bent over in laughter.

Christine was continuing. "I may not be brilliant-but I've figured out that much. There's no use longing for what used to be. I can't be a little girl curled up in Mommy's lap enjoying a bedtime story. I can't run down the dusty track to meet my daddy as he comes home, his outline washed with colors of the setting sun. I can't sneak into your room in the middle of the night when I've had a bad dream and share your pillow. I can't play in the puddles with Tina or Mary Daw or Little Deer after a summer rain, or sit and watch you fish in the deep pool of the beaver dam. I can't romp with pups or take Kip for a-"

"Hey," Henry's words stopped her as he placed a hand on her head. "Of course you can."

She began to shake her head, tears now glistening in the corners of her hazel eyes.

"You can," Henry insisted. "You just did."

She looked puzzled.

"We've got all those memories," Henry explained. "Our wonderful growing-up years. Our family. Our friends. They stay with us."

"It's not the same," said Christine wistfully. "Sometimes I just ache to ... to go back. To walk the trails through the woods. To smell the smoke from the campfires. To hear the soft music of the native tongue. I do miss it."

"Is that really what you miss-or childhood? I mean, it seems to me if one has had a great childhood-no matter where you live, what you experience-it's hard to let it go."

Elizabeth thought back to Henry's earliest years. His had not been a great childhood. His roving, lawless, and indifferent family had moved him from pillar to post, quarreling and growling all the way. Had Henry been able to erase those memories ?

"Now, I didn't get me too great a start," Henry was saying. "I had family-lots of family. But we didn't think of one another as family. Not with caring. It wasn't until Dad and Mom took me in that I really felt at home. And you-do you remember back? Before you came to us? I still remember the day Dad brought you home. 'Elizabeth,' he said, 'do you think you have room for another one?' And she did. We all did. That's when I felt we were really a family. After you came." The smile the two exchanged moved Elizabeth more than she could have explained.

"Mom had told me about Susie and Samuel," Henry went on. "I always grieved inside. They were more real to me than my own brothers and sisters. More ... a part of the family. Then there was little Louis. But he was so sickly when he came that he scarcely had the breath to cry. Even Mom's fussing and Dad's medicine couldn't keep him with us for long. I felt I had lost family. I felt sorrow. Real sorrow. Like a piece of the family was missing. And then you came. That's what I think of when I think back. When I want memories of growing-up years. Not the northern lights, not the winter snows, not the dogs we've played with. Not even our many friends. I think of family. And I know inside that no matter where we would have lived, I would have good memories because of that."

Christine sniffed. Wynn passed her his handkerchief.

Elizabeth was busy with a hankie of her own. Henry's words were the most beautiful Christmas gift she had ever been given.

Christine nodded and even managed a smile. "You are right-as usual. We have been blessed." She struggled for composure and moved to lean against Henry's long legs. He placed a hand on her shoulder. Elizabeth could see his fingers curl in a little squeeze.

"I guess that's why I feel so sorry for someone like ... like Boyd" were Christine's next words. "He has been so ... impoverished. All he has ever had is ... things."

"He's the only child?" asked Wynn.

Christine nodded.

"What's he like?" prompted Henry.

"Well ... he makes all of the typists swoon," began Christine, and the little group all laughed again. "Trouble is, he is well aware of the fact. I think he loves the attention."

"So he's nice looking?" asked Elizabeth.

"More than nice looking," Christine answered with emphasis.

"I knew a young man like that once," said Elizabeth with a knowing smile toward Wynn. "Nice thing was, he didn't seem to be aware of it."

Christine and Henry understood the words and both sets of eyes turned to their father. "Oh, Boyd isn't quite as handsome as Dad," put in Christine, and more soft laughter filled the room.

"So what have his good looks done for him? Or to him?" asked Henry pointedly.

"He's ... cocky. I've never quite figured out if he really feels that self-assured ... or ... or uncertain. But if he does feel insecure, he sure does a great job of hiding it." She chuckled, but there didn't seem to be much joy in it.

"After he splashed me so thoroughly-you heard about that?" She half turned to Henry, who nodded. "Well, I had little choice but to accept the ride home. It started out pretty ... stiff. I was still miffed ... but he seemed amused. That made me even angrier. But-in a way-he was a gentleman, though he never did get around to an apology. The next morning there was this big, lovely bouquet of flowers on my desk, and the card read, 'From the fool driver'-like it was a joke. I wasn't sure how to take it but finally just shrugged it off. I decided that city folks were different than country folks and that-in his own way-this was his apology."

"How old is this guy?" Again the query from Henry.

"Umm ... not sure. Twenty-two, maybe."

"Does he have a job?"

"No. He's still going to school." Christine would not have said so, but she was rather relieved, and some disappointed, that Boyd had gone off to school. More and more his eyes had turned her way when he visited his father's office. It unsettled yet excited her. And when he began to hang around her desk and find little excuses to chat, she felt at times that she could scarcely breathe. She needed time-space-in order to sort out the reason for her skipped heartbeats.

"Where?"

Her attention turned back to the family who shared the room and the fire. "University. In the East. Toronto, I think."

Wynn stirred. "What's he studying?" he asked.

"I'm not sure. I don't know if he's sure. I think from what his father has said, he's changed his mind a couple times."

Elizabeth looked across at her husband and silently shared his concern.

"Any church background?"

Christine shifted her position and looked from one parent to the other. "None whatever," she replied. "Mr. Kingsley has little use for the church-or for God. I think he's angry that his wife died. Anyway, I doubt Boyd has ever been to church in his life. Not even to Sunday school. He believes church is for wackos."

"Wackos?"

"His words-not mine."

Elizabeth saw Wynn's eyes lift to the wall clock. "Speaking of church," he said, "if we are going to be on time for the Christmas Eve service, we'd best get ourselves on the move. Wouldn't want the rest of the wackos to start without us."

A good-natured chuckle rippled around the room. Elizabeth smiled contentedly. It was time to be up and out. She had been so looking forward to sharing a pew with her son and daughter again. Perhaps that was when she missed them the most. When they gathered for worship and part of her family was not there.

"Why don't you two take Teeko for a walk?" suggested Wynn.

The gifts had been opened, the clutter cleared away, and the traditional Delaney Christmas breakfast of poached egg on toast had disappeared. From the kitchen came the aroma of the roasting turkey. Already the blueberry pie had been lifted from the oven, but it would be some time yet before they sat down again to the table.

Henry stretched long arms above his tall frame. "It would be good to work out a few kinks," he agreed. Christine hung up the dish towel. "Only if Mom promises to take a break while we're gone."

Elizabeth chuckled. "I promise. I was looking for an excuse for a second cup of coffee."

"What about it, big guy?" Henry asked the yawning dog. "Are you up for a tramp through the woods?"

The dog responded only with a thump of his tail, his recognition of having been spoken to. Henry then changed to "Teeko. Walk?" At once Teeko was on his feet, his whole body shivering in anticipation as he headed for the door that led them outside.

"Guess he's willing," noted Henry.

"He's always willing," laughed Elizabeth. "Rain or shine. Day or night."

It didn't take them long to gather coats and mittens, and soon the house was quiet again. Elizabeth poured two cups of coffee and joined Wynn before the fire. She sipped quietly for a moment before she turned to her husband. "So ... which one of our children should we be most concerned about?"

Wynn looked over at her but did not speak.

"Henry and his painful memory-or Christine with her pain of empathy?" she continued.

"I guess we didn't raise them to be insensitive," replied Wynn slowly. "But they do seem to be taking on others' burdens with perhaps too much intensity."

Elizabeth put down her cup. "It's hard," she mused. "So hard-in life-to arrive at that proper balance." She was thoughtful for a few moments before saying, "I do hope that Christine's compassion doesn't blind her to other things."

"You see the possibility of something more?"

Elizabeth nodded. "Sometimes the 'something more' sneaks up on one."

"You don't want her falling for this young man."

"No. No, I don't. I will be honest about it. It sounds risky to me. She knows the importance of a shared faith with the man she learns to love. His ... his unawareness of spiritual things, of God, frightens me. But Christine knows all that. She knows about love. Respect. Goodness. She'll know better than to get involved-unless he changes. But-even then ..." Her voice drifted to a halt before picking up the thought again. "If the feeling is ... is pity because of what he didn't have, or guilt because of what she did have-then no. No. I don't want that kind of a relationship for her. She should have something much better than that."

"Will you tell her?"

Elizabeth shook her head. "I don't know. Perhaps. I'll need to ... to pray about it. To feel ... led."

He nodded.

"But our Henry-I've no idea how to ... to help Henry."

"I know how he feels. At least to some extent. A sudden death is always hard. And to be the bearer of the news is heart wrenching. I've had to do it a number of times over the years. But never ... never to a young woman with an infant. It must have been an awful experience."

"Do you think ... he'll be able to get over it?"

"Do we want him to?" Wynn looked directly into Elizabeth's eyes. When she didn't speak, he continued, "Time will help. But the experience will change him. In some way. If it is shrugged off, thinking 'that's their problem,' one becomes callous. Indifferent. If you let it stay with you, festering like an inner canker when there is nothing you can do about it, it brings cynicism. If you do what you can, accept it as part of life, but let God keep you open to others-then you grow from the experience."

Elizabeth nodded. She had always wanted her children to grow. To mature. To get beyond the selfishness of childhood and be able to reach out to others in a world full of sorrow and tragedy. But sometimes that growth came through such pain. Her mother's heart wished there were some other way.

"How do you think the folks are doing?" Christine asked as soon as they were a comfortable distance from the small house. Henry moved on a few steps, listening to the crunch beneath his heavy boots before answering. Like Christine, he would miss the sound of the snow underfoot if it were to be taken from him.

"Look all right to me," he answered lightly. "You?" When she was slow in responding, he turned to look at his sister. "Okay," she said at length. "I think Mom looks a little tired."

"She always gets too involved in things. That's Mom. No wonder she's tired."

Teeko ran ahead, barking joyously at being outside. He turned once and looked back to make sure they were still following.

"Dad said anything about his leg?"

Henry shrugged. "You know he doesn't talk about it." Wynn never made mention of his injured leg.

"It still makes me angry when I think of it," Christine burst out. "He likes to shrug it off as being part of the job-but it isn't. At least, it shouldn't be. Just because he's a Mountie doesn't mean he should have to lose a leg to maintain law and order."

"What should he have done?"

"He saw the guy had a knife-and he knew he would use it."

"Are you saying he should have shot the fellow?"

It was Christine's turn to shrug. "I don't know. I've never been able to sort it out. But it doesn't seem right that he couldn't protect himself. That crazed idiot would have cut him up into little pieces if he'd been able-"

"He was drunk."

"Drunk or sober-what's the difference? Dad still lost his leg."

"Well ... not totally. He's always saying how thankful he is that he still has it."

Henry thought back to the awful day of the incident. They'd been sure they were going to lose their father. When that fear was finally put to rest, they were sure he would at least lose the leg. But that didn't happen either. He'd been pulled from the North where he loved to work and had been given an office job instead, but he could still walk, although with a limp. They had all thanked God for that many times.

"Does he really hate being caged behind a desk instead of being out in the air and sun?" Christine wondered aloud.

Henry laughed. "Last time he talked to me he didn't sound at all envious. Said he was getting a bit old to enjoy nights huddled in blankets in a bank of snow, or trekking forty miles behind a dog team to check on some trapper's line."

"I think it's a bluff," said Christine.