How funny and fat Tom had looked on top of the ladder, reaching as high as he dared!  The ladder began to wobble, and he balanced precariously, while Angelina clutched at his fat ankles with a scream of fright.  But Tom said:—­

“Ow!  Angelina, let go my ankles!  You hurt!  Now don’t scream.  I shan’t fall.  Don’t you know that this is the Christmas Angel, and he will never let me get hurt on Christmas Eve?”

Swaying wildly on one toe Tom had clutched at the air, at the tree itself,—­anywhere for support.  Yet, almost as if by a miracle, he did not fall.  And the Christmas Angel was looking down from the very top of the tree.

Miss Terry laid the little pink figure in her lap and mused.  “Mother was wise!” she sighed.  “She knew how to settle our quarrels in those days.  Perhaps if she had still been here things would have gone differently.  Tom might not have left me for good. For good.” She emphasized the words with a nod as if arguing against something.

Again she took up the Christmas Angel and looked earnestly at it.  Could it be that tears were glistening in her eyes?  Certainly not!  With a sudden sniff and jerk of the shoulders she leaned forward, holding the Angel towards the fire.  This should follow the other useless toys.  But something seemed to stay her hand.  She drew back, hesitated, then rose to her feet.

“I can’t burn it,” she said.  “It’s no use, I can’t burn it.  But I don’t want to see the thing around.  I will put this out on the sidewalk, too.  Possibly this may be different and do some good to somebody.”

She wrapped the shawl about her shoulders and once more ran down the steps.  She left the Angel face upward in the middle of the sidewalk, and retreated quickly to the house.  As she opened the door to enter, she caught the distant chorus of fresh young voices singing in a neighboring square:—­

    “Angels from the realms of glory,
    Wing your flight o’er all the earth.”

When she took her place behind the curtain she was trembling a little, she could not guess why.  But now she watched with renewed eagerness.  What was to be the fate of the Christmas Angel?  Would he fall into the right hands and be hung upon some Christmas tree ere morning?  Would he—­

Miss Terry held her breath.  A man was staggering along the street toward her.  He whistled noisily a vulgar song, as he reeled from curb to railing, threatening to fall at every step.  A drunken man on Christmas Eve!  Miss Terry felt a great loathing for him.  He was at the foot of the steps now.  He was close upon the Angel.  Would he see it, or would he tread upon it in his disgusting blindness?

Yes—­no!  He saw the little pink image lying on the bricks, and with a lurch forward bent to examine it.  Miss Terry flattened her nose against the pane eagerly.  She expected to see him fall upon the Angel bodily.  But no; he righted himself with a whoop of drunken mirth.