“No,” he said quietly—­was it to himself or to his vanished visitors?—­“let it go.  Merry Christmas.”

III

The Friend

“Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these, my
Brethren”

III

The Friend

“Is the story of the Christ Child true, Mommy?” quivered one little, thin voice.

“Yes, they told us it was over at the mission Sunday-school,” said the littlest child.

“I don’t believe it,” answered the mother.  “God ain’t never done much for me.”

“It’s Christmas eve, ain’t it?” asked the boy, climbing up on the thin knees of the threadbare woman and nestling his thin face against a thinner breast which the rags scarcely covered decently.

“Yes, it’s Christmas eve.”

“And that’s the day He came, ain’t it?” urged the oldest girl.

“They say so.”

“Don’t you believe it, Mommy?”

“I used to believe it when I was a girl.  I believed it before your father died, but now—­”

“Don’t you believe it now?” repeated the first child.

“How can I believe it?  You’re old enough to understand.  That’s the last scuttle of coal we got.  We ate the last bit of bread for supper to-night.”

“They say,” put in the little boy, “that if you hang up your stockings, Santa Claus’ll fill ’em, ’cause of the Christ Child.”

“Don’t you believe it, Sonny,” said the mother desperately.

“I’m going to hang up mine and see,” said the littlest girl.

“He’s got too many other children to look after,” said the woman, “to care for the likes of us, I’m afraid, and—­”

“But my Sunday-school teacher said He came to poor people special.  He was awful poor Himself.  Why, He was born in a stable.  That’s awful poor, ain’t it?” asked the boy.

“When I was a girl,” answered the mother, “I lived on a farm and we had a stable there that was a palace to this hole we live in now.  No, you’d better not hang up your stockings, none of you.”

“And you don’t believe in Him, Mommy?”

“No.  What would be the use if you hung ’em up and didn’t find anything in ’em in the morning?”

“It’d be awful, but I believe in Him,” said the littlest girl.  “I don’t think God has forgot us, really.  I’m going to try.”

“I tell you ’tain’t no use.”

“Oh, yes, it is.”

“I’m sure it ain’t.  But have it your own way,” said the woman.  “If someone would fill your stockings with milk and bread and—­”

“I want a turkey,” said the oldest girl.

“And cranberry sauce,” added the boy.

“I want a doll-baby in mine,” said the littlest girl.

The mother hid her face and groaned aloud.