It snowed heavily all night, and Madam Liberality slept very little from pain and anxiety; but this did not deter her from going out with the first daylight in the morning to rake among the snow near the door, although her throat was sore beyond concealment, her jaws stiff, and the pleasant languor and quick-wittedness had given way to restless fever.

Her conscience did prick her a little for the anxiety she was bringing upon her mother (her own sufferings she never forecast); but she could not give up her Christmas-tree without a struggle, and she hoped by a few familiar remedies to drive back the threatened illness.

Meanwhile, if the shillings were not found before eleven o’clock it would be too late to send to the town shop by the carrier.  But they were not found, and the old hooded cart rumbled away without them.

It was Christmas Eve.  The boys were bustling about with holly.  Darling was perched on a very high chair in the kitchen, picking raisins in the most honourable manner, without eating one, and Madam Liberality ought to have been the happiest of all.

Even now she dried her tears, and made the best of her ill-luck.  The sweetmeats were very good; and it was yet in her power to please the others, though by a sacrifice from which she had shrunk.  She could divide her scallop-shells among them.  It was economy—­economy of resources—­which made her hesitate.  Separated—­they would please the boys once, and then be lost.  Kept together in her own possession—­they would be a constant source of triumph for herself, and of treats for her brothers and sister.

Meanwhile, she would gargle her throat with salt and water.  As she crept up-stairs with this purpose, she met her mother.

Madam Liberality had not looked in the looking-glass lately, so she did not understand her mother’s exclamation of distress when they met.  Her face was perfectly white, except where dark marks lay under her eyes, and her small lips formed between them the rigid line of pain.  It was impossible to hold out any longer, and Madam Liberality broke down and poured forth all her woes.

“I’ll put my feet in hot water, and do anything you like, mother dear,” said she, “if only you’ll let me try and have a tree, and keep it secret from the others.  I do so want to surprise them.”

“If you’ll go to your room, my darling, and do as I tell you, I’ll keep your secret, and help you with your tree,” said her mother.  “Don’t cry, my child, don’t cry; it’s so bad for your throat.  I think I can find you some beads to make a necklace for Darling, and three pencils for the boys, and some paper which you can cut up into drawing-books for them.”

A little hope went a long way with Madam Liberality, and she began to take heart.  At the same time she felt her illness more keenly now there was no need for concealing it.  She sat over the fire and inhaled steam from an old teapot, and threaded beads, and hoped she would be allowed to go to church next day, and to preside at her Christmas-tree afterwards.