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Then she had said, "Let's not trim the tree until tomorrow, Robert. I'm tired."

Yet what was the magic of Christmas now? His childhood and youth were long past, and his own children had grown up and gone.

He woke suddenly and completely. It was four o'clock, the hour at which his father had always called him to get up and help with the milking. Strange how the habits of his youth clung to him still! His father had been dead for thirty years, but, this morning it was Christmas, he did not try to sleep.

He had agreed, and the tree was still out by the back door.

Yesterday his wife had said, it isn't worthwhile, perhaps -- And he had said, "Oh, yes, Alice, even if there are only the two for us, let's have a Christmas of our own."

Why did he feel so awake tonight? For it was still night, a clear and starry night. No moon, of course, but the stars were extraordinary! Now that he thought of it, the stars seemed always large and clear before the dawn of Christmas day.

He lay in his bed in his room. The door to her room was shut because she was a light sleeper. Years ago they had decided to use separate rooms. Neither of them slept as well as they once had. They had been married so long that nothing could separate them, actually.

He slipped back in time, as he did so easily nowadays. He was fifteen years old and still on his father's farm. He loved his father. He had not known it until one day a few days before Christmas, when he had overheard what his father was saying to his mother.

"Yes," his father said slowly. "But I sure do hate to wake him."

When he heard these words, something in him spoke: his father loved him! He had never thought of that before, taking for granted the tie of their blood. Neither his father nor his mother talked about loving their children -- they had no time for such things. There was always so much to do on the farm. Now that he knew his father loved him there would be no more loitering in the mornings and having to be called again. He got up after hat, stumbling blind with sleep and pulled on his clothes.

"Mary, I hate to call Rob in the mornings. He's growing so fast and he needs his sleep. If you could see how he sleeps when I go in to wake him up! I wish I could manage alone."

"Well, you can't Adam." His mother's voice as brisk, "Besides, he isn't a child anymore. It's time he took his turn."

Then Jesus had been born in a barn, and to a barn the shepherds and the Wise Men had come, bringing their Christmas gifts!

He wished, that Christmas when he was fifteen, he had a better present for his father instead of the usual tie from the ten-cent store. He lay on his side and looked out of his attic window.

And then on the night before Christmas, that year when he was fifteen, he lay for a few minutes thinking about the next day. They were poor, and most of the excitement was in the turkey they had raised themselves and mince pies his mother made. His sisters sewed presents and his mother and father always bought something he needed, not only a warm jacket, maybe, but something more, such as a book. And he saved and bought them each something, too.

"Dad," he had once asked when he was a little boy, "What is a stable?"

"It's just a barn," his father had replied, "like ours."

The thought struck him like a silver dagger. Why should he not give his father a special gift too, out there in the barn? He could get up early, earlier than four o'clock, and he could creep into the barn and get all the milking done. He'd do it alone, milk and clean up, and then when his father went in to start the milking he'd see it all done.

He laughed to himself as he gazed at the stars. It was what he would do, and he mustn't sleep too sound.

At a quarter to three he got up and put on his clothes. He crept downstairs, careful of the creaky boards, and let himself out. The cows looked at him, sleepy and surprised. It was early for them too.

But they accepted him placidly and he fetched some hay for each cow and then got the milking pail and the big milk cans.

He must have waked twenty times, scratching a match each time to look at his old watch -- midnight, and half past one, and then two o'clock.

The task went more easily than he had ever known it to go before. Milking for once was not a chore. It was something else, a gift to his father who loved him. He finished, the two milk cans were full, and he covered them and closed the milk-house door carefully, making sure of the latch. He put the stool in its place by the door and hung up the clean milk pail. Then he went out of the barn and barred the door behind him.

He had never milked all alone before, but it seemed almost easy. He smiled and milked steadily, two strong streams rusing into the pail, frothing and fragrant. The cows were behaving well, as though they knew it was Christmas.

Back in his room he had only a minute to pull off his clothes in the darkness and jump into bed, for he heard his father up. He put the covers over his head to silence his quick breathing. The door opened.

"It's for Christmas, Dad!"

"I'll go on out," his father said. "I'll get things started."

The door closed and he lay still, laughing to himself. In just a few minutes his father would know. His dancing heart was ready to jump from his body.

"Yes, Dad --"

"Rob!" His father called. "We have to get up, son, even if it is Christmas."

The minutes were endless -- ten, fifteen, he did not know how many -- and he heard his father's footsteps again. The door opened and he lay still.

"Rob!"

"You son of a --" His father was laughing, a queer sobbing sort of laugh.

"Aw-right," he said sleepily.

He found his father had clutched him in a great hug. He felt his father's arms go around him. It was dark and they could not see each other's faces.

"Thought you'd fool me, did you?" His father was standing by his bed, feeling for him, pulling away the cover.

"Oh, Dad, I want you to know -- I do want to be good!" The words broke from him of their own will. He did not know what to say. His heart was bursting with love.

"Son, I thank you. Nobody ever did a nicer thing --"

"The best Christmas gift I ever had, and I'll remember it, son every year on Christmas morning, so long as I live."

He got up and pulled on his clothes again and they went down to the Christmas tree. Oh what a Christmas, and how his heart had nearly burst again with shyness and pride as his father told his mother and made the younger children listen about how he, Rob, had got up all by himself.

Outside the window now the stars slowly faded. He got out of bed and put on his slippers and bathrobe and went softly downstairs. He brought in the tree, and carefully began to trim it. It was done very soon. He then went to his library and fetched the little box that contained his special gift to his wife a diamond brooch, not large but dainty in design. But he was not satisfied. He wanted to tell her -- to tell her how much he loved her.

They had both remembered it, and now that his father was dead, he remembered it alone: that blessed Christmas dawn when, alone with the cows in the barn; he had made his first gift of true love.

How fortunate that he had been able to love! Ah, that was the true joy of life, the ability to love! For he was quite sure that some people were genuinely unable to love anyone. But love was alive in him. It still was.

It occurred to him suddenly that it was alive because long ago it had been born in him when he knew his father loved him. That was it: Love alone could awaken love. And he could give the gift again and again.

Such a happy, happy, Christmas!

This morning, this blessed Christmas morning, he would give it to his beloved wife. He could write it down in a letter for her to read and keep forever. He went to his desk and began his love letter to his wife: My dearest love…