It came soon after
supper, for the boys were more than ready to go to bed, hoping in
this way to encourage an early visit from Santa Claus and so have
the first choice of gifts from his overflowing pack. There was a
little sadness in Jean's smile, as she watched them eagerly
fastening their long stockings around the kitchen chimney, with
many a sleepy dispute about the best place and to whom it should
be given. Then they clattered up the stairs and pulled off their
clothes, tossing them in a promiscuous pile on the floor, to be
sorted out again by Jean while they lay huddled under the
blankets. The last good night was said, the last "Merry Christmas"
exchanged in anticipation of the morrow, and Jean went away and
left them.
She crossed into her own room, took up the little box, and went
down-stairs again and out into the kitchen. How poor and mean her
gifts looked, after all, and how lonely in the toes of the long,
thin stockings! She could have cried, as she stood there looking
at them; but what was the use of crying? Tears wouldn't bring
Willie the air-rifle for which he sighed, nor Ernest the fine new
sled and knife that he had so innocently mentioned in his prayers.
No, crying wouldn't help the matter any; so she smiled instead, as
she went back to the sitting-room; but it was a wan, lifeless
smile, after all.
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