“Come on, old Truepenny,” she said, going in.

There was comfort.  Nothing in that house, from the red woollen curtains to the bright poker, which did not have its part to play for Christmas.  Nothing that did not say “Christmas,” from Catty’s eyes to the very supper-table.  Of course, I don’t mean the Christmas dinner, when I say supper.  Tom could have told you.  Somewhere in his paunchy little body he kept a perpetual bill of fare, checked off or unchecked.  He based and stayed his mind now on preparations in the pantry.  Something solid there!  A haunch of venison, mince-meat, winter succotash, a roasted peahen,—­and that is the top and crown of Nature’s efforts in the way of fowls.  For suppers,—­pish!  However, Tom ate with the rest.  Mother was hungry; so they were very leisurely, and joked and laughed to that extent that even Catty was uproarious when they were through.  Then Jem fell to work at the great coals, and battered them into a rousing fire.

“I’ll go and fasten the shutters,” said Tom.

Martha Yarrow’s back was to the window.  She turned sharply.  The sickly white moon lighted up the snow-waste out there; some one might be out in those frozen fields,—­some one who was coming home,—­who had been gone for years,—­years.  Jem was watching her.

“Leave the windows alone, Tom,” he said.  “It won’t hurt the night to see my fire.”

He pulled his cricket close up to her, and took her hand to pet.  It was cold, and her teeth chattered.  However, they were all so snug and close together, and Christmas, that great warm-hearted day, was so near upon them, as full of love and hearty, warm enjoyment as the living God could send it, that its breath filled all their hearts; and presently Martha Yarrow’s face was brighter than Catty’s.  They were noisy and busy enough.  The programme for to-morrow was to make out; that put all heads to work to plan:  the stockings to be opened, and dinner, and maybe a visit to the menagerie in the afternoon.  That was Martha’s surprise, and she was not disappointed in the applause it brought.  It made the tears come to her eyes, an hour after, when she was going to bed, remembering it.

“It takes such a little thing to make them happy,” she said to herself,—­“or me, either,” with a somewhat silly face.

She tried to thank God for giving them so much, but only sobbed.  After the confusion about the show was over, and Catty had been wakened into a vague jungle of tigers and lions and Shetland ponies, and put to sleep again, they subsided enough to remember the winding-up of the day.  Quiet that was to be; the children from Shag’s Point were coming up, some half-dozen in all, for their share of Christmas.  Poorer than the Yarrows, you understand? though but a little; in fact, there were not many steps farther down:  peahens and cranberries were not for every day.  Well, to-morrow evening Jem would tell them the story of the Stable and the Child, and how that