“Beautifully!” Patricia was placing a small jointed doll in the top of Norma’s stocking.  “This is going to be about the realest Christmas I’ve ever had.”

“It’s going to be a mighty sad one for a lot of people.”

All the fun and laughter vanished from Patricia’s gray eyes.  She looked about the pleasant, homelike room, with its trimmings of evergreen and holly, and a swift, sharp, realizing sense of what was going on down at the hotel came to her.  For a moment the girl’s lips quivered and the hand that held Tommy’s empty stocking trembled.  “But, Nell,” she said slowly, “I am sure—­oh, I know they would want their children to have their Christmas.  It would be too dreadful, afterwards—­if they could remember nothing but—­sadness and—­sorrow.  O Nell, I wonder if there were any children hurt?”

“I don’t know,” Nell answered.  “Let’s—­not talk about it, Patricia.  Shall I put the trumpet in Archibald’s stocking?”

“I suppose so, he’s larger than Tommy.  I don’t know what Aunt Julia will do if he wakes up early and starts to blowing it.  Poor Aunt Julia!  She’s got a lot of surprises coming her way.”  Patricia stuffed out the toe of Lydia’s stocking with the regulation nuts and raisins.  “There,” she said, a moment later, “I reckon these are ready to hang up again.”

They tiptoed upstairs softly; the children were all sleeping quietly, and even Custard barely opened the corner of one eye at Patricia’s coming.

Custard was having the time of his life.  Hitherto, beds had been strictly forbidden ground with Custard; and just what could have brought about this most delightful state of affairs was quite beyond his powers of imagination, but he was wisely wasting no time in idle speculation.

Patricia stroked him a bit dubiously.  “I am afraid Aunt Julia will rebel at this, old fellow; but Archibald’s got fast hold of you, and I simply can’t risk waking him up.”

“I must go now, Pat,” Nell said, as they went downstairs again; “I told Papa I’d be back soon.”

“Somehow,” she added, as she and Patricia stood a moment on the front steps, “I can’t make it seem like Christmas eve—­not even with your five stockings, Pat.”

Patricia looked out at the white whirl of snow; the street seemed deserted, but here and there, where a blind had been left undrawn, a light shone out.

Then, from the house next door, came the sound of a Christmas carol: 

  “Hark! the herald angels sing
  Glory to the new-born King.”

Clearly, joyously, through the still, snow-laden air, sounded the words—­

  “Risen with healing in His wings,
  Light and life to all He brings. 
  Hail, the Sun of Righteousness! 
  Hail, the heaven-born Prince of Peace!”

Patricia drew a long breath.  “But it is Christmas eve, Nell.  And, O Nell, at least we didn’t have any one there—­on the express.”

“N-no,” Nell said gravely, “still—­”