When the second woman with the two little ones came up and begged for the toy, something hard and sullen and cruel rose in the widow’s heart, and she refused angrily to give up the thing.  She hated those two boys who had been spared when her own was taken.  She would not make them happy.

“No, you shall not have it,” she cried, clutching the Noah’s ark fiercely.  “I will destroy it.”

The poor woman and the children followed her wistfully.  The little boys were crying.  They were cold and hungry and disappointed.  They had come so near to something pleasant.  They had almost been lucky; but the luck had passed over their heads to another.

The woman in mourning strode on rapidly, the thoughts within her no less black than the garments which she wore.  She hated the world; she hated the people who lived in it.  She hated Christmas time, when every one seemed merry except herself.  And yes, yes!  Most of all she hated children.  She clenched her teeth wickedly; her mind reeled.

Suddenly, somewhere, a chorus of happy voices began to sing the words of an old carol:—­

    “Holy night!  Peaceful night! 
    All is dark save the light,
    Yonder where they sweet vigil keep,
    O’er the Babe who in silent sleep
      Rests in heavenly peace.”

Softly and sweetly the childish voices ascended from the street.  The woman in black stopped short, breathing hard.  She saw the band of choristers standing in a group on the sidewalk and in the snow, their hats pulled down over their eyes, their collars turned up around their ears, their hands deep in pockets.  In their midst rose the tall wooden cross carried by a little fellow with yellow hair.  They sang as simply and as heartily as a flock of birds out in the snow.

The woman gave a great sob.  Her little lad had been a choir boy,—­perhaps these were his one-time comrades.  The second verse of the carol rang out sweetly:—­

    “Holy night!  Peaceful night! 
    Only for shepherds’ sight
    Came blest visions of angel throngs,
    With their loud Hallelujah songs,
      Saying, Jesus is come!”

Suddenly it seemed to the distracted mother that her own boy’s voice blended with those others.  He too was singing in honor of that Child.  Happy and ever young, he was bidding her rejoice in the day which made all childhood sacred.  And for his sake she had been hating children!

With a sudden revulsion of feeling she turned to see what had become of the poor mother and her boys.  They were not far behind, huddling in the shadow.  The black woman strode quickly up to them.  They shrank pitifully at her approach, and she felt the shame of it.  They were afraid of her!

“Here,” she said, thrusting the Noah’s ark into the hands of the larger boy.  “Take it.  It belongs to you.”

The child took it timidly.  The mother began to protest thanks.  Trying to control the shake in her voice the dark lady spoke again.  “Have you prepared a Christmas for your children?”