“I do hope we get more of it by Christmas Day,” the vicar remarked. “The children do love it so.” His wish was granted. There was a heavy fall the day before Christmas Eve, deep enough in some places to block the less traveled roads. But there was no wind and little bite to the cold. Snowmen appeared with lump coal eyes and children sledded on Burgate Hill. Martin came down from London by train and Charles met him at the station, Banes being laid up with bronchitis. “Quite a fake cough, I believe,” Charles said as he walked with Martin to the car. “Poor old fellow, he lives in dread of icy roads.” “You’re certainly looking well, Charles.” “I feel splendid—although somewhat depressed. I understand from Mother you’re going back to Chicago.” “Wrong by a few miles. New York.” “And for how long?” Martin shrugged. “I’m not sure. Scott Kingsford wants me to organize and run a news division for his CBC radio group. Easier said than done, I expect, but I’ll give it a try—and the salary is princely.”
