LITMIR.BIZ

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under the same roof as Christopher and Marie, the smile of Heaven shone on the chamber. With her golden hair and sparkling blue eyes, she was like a beautiful springtime morning. Drops of rain that fell on her hair looked like dew freshly gathered on a flower. Smiles played upon her face like light upon jewels. She was affectionate and sweet-natured with a musical little voice. I do not know how she came to be that way. I can only say that she was blessed and that, in her earliest years, she must have been very much loved by her mother.

      I loved that little girl so much. She could have been the daughter of a king.

      We celebrated Ruby’s fourth birthday in July. Christopher was crying that evening at dinner.

      “She was the only thing that made this world of value for me,” he said through tears. “And now, to see her so happy . . .”

      Summer passed. Autumn leaves fell. Then came winter and Christmas.

      Christmas encircles the small world of a child like a magic ring. This was a Christmas unlike any that Ruby and Christopher had known before.

      Marie’s bakery and my own opened for business on Christmas morning at the normal hour of seven o’clock. Three hours later, we closed our doors and I went to her home where gifts were exchanged.

      Marie gave Ruby a pair of red mittens that she had knitted while Ruby was sleeping. Christopher gave her a doll. I brought a miniature rocking horse about the size of my hand. Then we left for a special occasion. Octavius Joy had invited us to his home for Christmas dinner.

      The streets were sprinkled with clusters of people wearing their gayest faces and dressed in their finest clothes. I could only imagine how the sights and sounds echoed in Ruby’s mind. The colours, the smiles, the good cheer.

      We passed a group of carolers, singing in a language that Ruby did not understand:

       Adeste Fideles laeti triumphantes,

       Venite, venite in Bethlehem.

      The voices were a beautiful orchestra to her.

      “Christmas brings back the pleasures of our childhood,” Marie said as she took my arm.

      Mr. Joy lived in a large brick house in a fashionable part of London. A servant met us at the door and retreated to announce the arrival of Miss Ruby Spriggs. That was unnecessary, since Ruby had followed him inside and rushed to embrace Mr. Joy before the announcement.

      “Thank you for coming,” he told us. “Christmas is far more merry when viewed through the eyes of a child.”

      Everything in the house was beautifully kept. Holly and mistletoe were much in evidence. Mr. Joy led us into the parlour and introduced us to his other guests.

      A large evergreen tree laden with ornaments rose to the ceiling. Rosy-cheeked dolls hid behind clusters of green needles. Jolly-faced little men perched among the boughs. Fiddles and drums dangled from branches. There was a star at the top.

      Ruby stared in wonder.

      Then it was time for gifts. I had asked for the honour of bringing rolls and pastries to accompany dinner. Ruby gave our host a portrait she had drawn, which Mr. Joy promptly declared was the finest likeness of himself that he had ever seen. Marie had knitted a scarf for him in Christmas colours. Christopher had fashioned a window box in which Mr. Joy’s gardener could plant flowers in the spring.

      Following that, it was Mr. Joy’s turn to give. A music box for Marie. New coats for Christopher and myself. And for Ruby . . . A doll’s house with an open front and three distinct rooms. A parlour, a bedroom, and kitchen. Each room had miniature furniture crafted from wood. The kitchen came with an assortment of diminutive utensils and a set of tiny platters with delicacies glued tight on top.

      Ruby’s eyes opened wide and her lower jaw dropped in the manner of a toy nutcracker. There was a cry of joy and the never-to-be-forgotten image of a wildly happy child.

      Dinner was served. There were eighteen guests. Ruby was seated with Christopher and Marie on either side.

      Mr. Joy spoke a brief blessing about Christmas being a time to remember the less fortunate and expressed the hope that someday part of the Christmas spirit would live in all hearts for all of the year.

      During dinner, he engaged easily in conversation over a wide range of subjects from cheerful topics to more serious reflections. He adapted to whomever he was speaking with, whether that person was the wealthy banker seated to my left or Marie.

      Mr. Joy also proved to be an expert at carving. A roast goose is universally acknowledged to be the greatest stumbling block to perfection in that science. Many aspiring carvers who began successfully with legs of mutton and enhanced their reputation through fillets of veal, quarters of lamb, and even ducks have been defeated by a roast goose.

      To Mr. Joy, resolving a goose into its smallest component parts was a performing art. No handing the dish over to a servant, no hacking and sawing at an unruly joint. No noise, no splash. The legs of the bird slid gently down into a pool of gravy. The wings seemed to melt from the body. The breast separated into a row of juicy slices to reveal a cavern of stuffing.

      When the meal was done, Mr. Joy turned to Ruby with a twinkle in his eyes.

      “Come with me,” he said. “I would not be surprised if we found a gingerbread soldier in the drawing room. Let us go and look for him.”

      It seemed to Ruby as if the drawing room was all nooks and corners. And in each nook and corner, there was some little chair or cupboard or something or other that made her think there could not possibly be such another good nook or corner in the room until she looked at the next one and found it equal to if not better than the one before.

      Eventually, she found the gingerbread man and returned to the parlour with Mr. Joy. Port wine, plum pudding, cheeses, pastries, and roasted chestnuts were being served.

      Then Ruby announced that she had a story to tell and recounted a tale that I believe was about a dragon, since I heard the phrase “bad dragon” several times and she snorted as though she were a dragon. At the close of the recitation, she shouted “bad dragon” one more time, exhaled as though dying, and with great drama lay down on the floor with her eyes closed and her arms across her chest.

      There was applause, which she enjoyed immensely, after which she turned to Mr. Joy and announced that it was his turn to tell a story.

      “Why don’t I read you a story,” he suggested.

      Mr. Joy went to his study, returned with a book of fairy tales, put on his reading spectacles, and began.

      “Once upon a time, there was a beautiful princess, who had everything she could wish for and a great deal more. The princess lived in a beautiful palace. She had gold and silver and diamonds—”

      “And potatoes,” Ruby interrupted.

      “That’s right. The princess had potatoes.”

      “And soup and bread and lots of jam.”

      “And what did the palace look like?” Mr. Joy inquired.

      “The princess had her own bed,” Ruby answered. “And there was a fireplace and everyone was happy.”

      As it should be in a fairy tale.

      “What did the princess look like?” Ruby asked, summoning Mr. Joy to return to the narrative.

      “Well,” he told her, “she had eyes like Ruby and hair like Ruby and smiled like Ruby and laughed like Ruby.”

      “It was me,” Ruby offered.

      “And one day, Ruby left the palace on a magical journey.”

      “And then I met a dragon.”

      “That’s right. Ruby met a dragon.”

      “A big dragon with fire in its mouth that jumped out of the woods. And I said to the dragon, ‘Do you want to play with me?’ And the dragon said yes, so I played with the

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