But Juliet was guilty of terrible cowardice after that. To her dying day she would be ashamed of it—but she couldn't break it off with John. He did love her—at least, she thought he did—and it would kill him. And he was so exhausted, studying for his exams. And it was rumoured that a terrible temper "ran" in the Lester family! Juliet quaked in her boots and pretended everything was fine—for the time being.

"I'll tell him in the New Year," she vowed pathetically. "I—wouldn't—want to have this hanging over him and spoil his Christmas."

All the same, she was glad to go home to New Moon at the end of term. John would be in Avonlea on 1 January—he was to help his aunt and uncle prepare for their move West.

Oh, she was glad—glad!—that he wouldn't be there for Christmas!

And she was glad to be back at New Moon. It was so wonderful to bask in the warmth from the broad kitchen hearth—to have Aunt Ilse fuss over her hair and dress—to have Uncle Perry to banter with—to have the light from Father's smile shine over her. It did Juliet's heart good to sit up late at night talking things over with Mother—Juliet could not bring herself to air her concerns about marrying John. Or the lingering feelings she still felt for Allan. But it was so nice to have her near—somehow things did not seem so bad whenever Mother was near. Only—didn't Mother seem a bit more pale and wan than usual? She was definitely quieter—and there was a lingering cough and hoarseness in her voice left over from a cold earlier in the season.

Truth be told, they were all worried about Emily. Teddy Kent consulted the doctor quietly and was told to keep close eye on her—she was not yet ill enough to go to the hospital, but her cough might easily turn into pneumonia. Teddy and Ilse tried to convince her to go to the hospital for tests—or to at least rest more—but Emily would have none of it. She had a new book coming out in the spring—she had presents to shop for and mail off to Doug and Bella—and there was a Christmas dinner to prepare.

"Besides," Mother said, with her nose in the air, "A Murray of New Moon has never gone to the hospital when ill. I'm fine. Just under the weather, is all."

But it was really much worse than that. Juliet and Emily were preparing the Christmas goose when there was a horrible hacking in Emily's chest—her breath rasped in her throat—she crumpled to the ground in a small, pitiful white heap. Teddy heard his daughter's cries from the barn and found Juliet huddled over her mother, with a very white face.

There was no question of the hospital now—Emily was far too ill to be moved. The doctor visited her in the spare bedroom, which had been made into a makeshift sick room. When he lifted his head from listening to her chest, his face was grave.

"She has pneumonia," he said. "She's had it for some time—I can't believe we didn't catch it before. It's grave, Kent, very grave. If she wasn't so sick I'd have her in hospital immediately. But as is now, she might not survive the journey. If I were you—"

Here the good doctor stopped. There was no easy way to tell this man and his daughter, whose eyes were like two wholes burnt in a blanket, to brace themselves for the worse. Besides, Emily Kent had the Murray constitution—there was a chance she might pull through this.

Besides, he did not really need to say anything. They all knew. Uncle Perry slipped quietly into town to send an emergency telegram to Douglas and Bella. They would want the chance to see Emily again before—well, they would want to see her. Aunt Ilse took over control of the house. She forced Teddy and Juliet to eat—but the latter ate next to nothing, and grew as pale as her sick Mother in the days that followed.

Mother was pale and unconscious most of the time—and when she did wake up she knew not where she was. Juliet was afraid to leave her side. Once, waking, she gazed up at Juliet and cried out.

"Oh!" she said. "Emily-in-the-glass, why do you look so worried?"

"It's me, Mother," said Juliet desperately. "Juliet! Oh, Mother, you're going to be fine—and Douglas is on his way to see you now, because he loves you so."

"Mr. Douglas Starr—on the road to heaven," Mother murmured feverishly. "He said he'd wait—Father said he'd go very slowly and wait for me to catch up—I wonder if he's waiting yet?"

Late on Christmas eve her breathing slowed even more and her heartbeats grew very faint and slow. The doctor ushered them all out. "Tonight is the breaking point," the doctor said seriously. "She'll either get the turn, or—she won't." To Teddy he said, "I'd watch your girl, if I was you. She's looking very peaked herself—very weak."

So Juliet was ordered to bed. But she could not sleep. Late—it must have been very late—she thought she heard a bell tolling, far away. Didn't that mean there would be a death soon?

"What would we do without Mother?" she sobbed into her pillow. "Oh, God, You couldn't let it happen! Oh God—oh please—oh Allan!"

She barely knew what she was saying she was so upset. Gradually, her tears subsided and she slept fitfully, only to be awakened by a heavy knock at the front door. Juliet shivered and jumped out of bed—she crept down the stairs—she had a sudden, ridiculous premonition that it was Death at the door, coming for Mother. The sun was just beginning to touch the eastern sky. The stars were out yet—the tide was going out. Hadn't someone once said that every tide the tide went out it took with it a soul—one soul—taking it far out over the bar to the sea?

The heavy knock sounded again and Juliet braced herself. "I won't be ridiculous—and superstotious," she said. "It's probably only Douglas." She flung the door wide open.

It wasn't Douglas—it was Allan—with a very pale face and worried eyes. Wordlessly, he and Juliet fell into each others' arms.

"How did you know?" Juliet wept. "How did you know I needed you?"

"You—called me," Allan said, looking amazed. "I wasn't coming home for Christmas—I didn't think I was up for it—I was laying in my bed and I heard you cry, 'Oh Allan!' Before I even knew what I was doing I was in the car, driving here. I drove all night. Juliet—Juliet—Aunt Emily isn't—?"

"No—not yet," Juliet said dully. "Oh, Allan—she couldn't! She won't—will she?"

"No," Allan said fervently, holding her close. "No."

They stayed that way for a long while—they heard a solemn tread on the stairs and looked up—but still, neither of them moved. It was the doctor, coming down with a tired face. Allan held her close and he and Juliet waited, hardly breathing, fearing the worst.

"She—" the good doctor began, and then cleared his throat and allowed a triumphant look to creep into his eyes, "She will live. Thank God—thank God, it's a miracle. She's resting now."

He went back up and Allan and Juliet faced each other with joyful eyes. When Juliet looked at Allan she gasped—she saw something she had not seen before, when he had come. The tortured look that had been there before was gone. His face was relaxed—this was the old Allan—Allan before the war had touched him. Yes, there were small lines around his eyes and every now and again a hint of worry and sorrow would touch him—from time to time—for the rest of his life. But Juliet could see in his eyes that he was capable again of feeling joy—and happiness—she took his face in her hands.

"Allan!" she cried. "It's you—you're back!" She laughed delightedly. "Oh friend—friend—I am glad! It's another miracle—two Christmas miracles—how could I ever have thought God wasn't good?"

* * *

There were no presents—there was no Christmas goose—but it was the best Christmas ever. Juliet flew through the house with wings on her feet. She was allowed to visit with Mother for a few minutes—but only a few minutes. She welcomed Douglas and Bella and set up little Embeth's cot in her own room over the stairs. How darling she was, toddling through the stately old rooms of New Moon! How wonderful that they were all together for Christmas and that Mother was out of danger!

Douglas went into town for provisions for their meal and came back with the mail from the past few days. To Juliet he handed a parcel wrapped with string and a long flat box. One was a necklace of pearls, sent by John. They were beautiful but it was a reserved beauty—Juliet held them for a while and then put them back in the box. She'd made a promise to herself when Mother had been ill—she would no longer live a lie. She would tell John everything. She could not accept his gift because she could not—would not—marry him.

She unwrapped the parcel in wonderment. Who could it be from? Her eyes scanned the letter that was enclosed—she pulled out a leather-bound book—then gave a cry of joy and sprang up the stairs to Mother's room.

Emily Kent was sitting up in bed gazing out the window. How wonderful to be alive another day in this marvelous world! She glanced up only when Juliet appeared in the doorway like a wild woman, breathing heavily, her face astar.

"My book!" she half laughed, half cried. "Mother—I forgot—I've written a book—about you, Mother! Emily of New Moon! And—Warehams has published it! Oh, Mother, look!"

Together they leafed through the volume. On the frontspiece was a the simple watercolor painting that Father had done of Mother in her youth. Together, the two women read the words inside and leafed through pages gingerly, as if reading a sacred text. It was a sacred text to them. Emily's eyes filled and she looked at her daughter.

"Juliet, Juliet!" she said, laughing. "I hadn't thought of half of those stories in years. You darling girl—I today as if God has given me my life back—and you have given me my past. Juliet—I'm proud of you."

"I'm proud of you," said Juliet as earnestly as she had when she had been a child. She placed her hand on Mother's knee and looked at her with love in her slate-blue eyes. "I'm going to write more books about you—I'll start another one today—about your Shrewsbury years, and how you conquered the Alpine Path. And oh, Mother—I'm going to call it Emily Climbs!"