It had been a busy day for Harmony.  In the morning there had been shopping and marketing, and such a temptation to be reckless, with the shops full of ecstasies and the old flower women fairly overburdened.  There had been anxieties, too, such as the pig’s head, which must be done a certain way, and Jimmy, who must be left with the Portier’s wife as nurse while all of them went to the hospital.  The house revolved around Jimmy now, Jimmy, who seemed the better for the moving, and whose mother as yet had failed to materialize.

In the afternoon Harmony played at the hospital.  Peter took her as the early twilight was falling in through the gate where the sentry kept guard and so to the great courtyard.  In this grim playground men wandered about, smoking their daily allowance of tobacco and moving to keep warm, offscourings of the barracks, derelicts of the slums, with here and there an honest citizen lamenting a Christmas away from home.  The hospital was always pathetic to Harmony; on this Christmas-Eve she found it harrowing.  Its very size shocked her, that there should be so much suffering, so much that was appalling, frightful, insupportable.  Peter felt her quiver under his hand.  A hospital in festivity is very affecting.  It smiles through its tears.  And in every assemblage there are sharply defined lines of difference.  There are those who are going home soon, God willing; there are those who will go home some time after long days and longer nights.  And there are those who will never go home and who know it.  And because of this the ones who are never going home are most festively clad, as if, by way of compensation, the nurses mean to give them all future Christmasses in one.  They receive an extra orange, or a pair of gloves, perhaps,—­and they are not the less grateful because they understand.  And when everything is over they lay away in the bedside stand the gloves they will never wear, and divide the extra orange with a less fortunate one who is almost recovered.  Their last Christmas is past.

“How beautiful the tree was!” they say.  Or, “Did you hear how the children sang?  So little, to sing like that!  It made me think—­of angels.”

Peter led Harmony across the courtyard, through many twisting corridors, and up and down more twisting staircases to the room where she was to play.  There were many Christmas trees in the hospital that afternoon; no one hall could have held the thousands of patients, the doctors, the nurses.  Sometimes a single ward had its own tree, its own entertainment.  Occasionally two or three joined forces, preempted a lecture-room, and wheeled or hobbled or carried in their convalescents.  In such case an imposing audience was the result.

Into such a room Peter led Harmony.  It was an amphitheater, the seats rising in tiers, half circle above half circle, to the dusk of the roof.  In the pit stood the tree, candle-lighted.  There was no other illumination in the room.  The semi-darkness, the blazing tree, the rows of hopeful, hoping, hopeless, rising above, white faces over white gowns, the soft rustle of expectancy, the silence when the Dozent with the red beard stepped out and began to read an address—­all caught Harmony by the throat.  Peter, keenly alive to everything she did, felt rather than heard her soft sob.