She dismissed Isabeau Eato with a promise that the girl accepted ungraciously.

“If I had the money Isabeau, you should have it; you know that!”

“Yas’m.  Hit’s what dey all says’m.”

“You shall have it,” Martie promised, with hot cheeks.  She breathed easier when the girl was gone.  She told the grocer that she had written her father, and that his bills should be paid; she reminded the big rosy man that she had been ill.  He listened without comment, cleaning a split thumb-nail.  The story was not a new one.

No answer came to her letter, and a sick suspicion that no answer would come began to trouble her.  December was passing.  Teddy was careful to tell her just what he wanted from Santa Claus.  On Christmas Eve she asked Wallace, as he was silently going out, for some money.

“I want to get Ted something for Christmas, Wallie.”

“What does he want?”

“Well, of course he wants a coaster and skates, but that’s absurd.  I thought some sort of a gun—­he’s gun-mad, and perhaps a book of fairy-tales.”

With no further comment her husband gave her a five-dollar-bill, and went on his way.  She saw that he had other bills, and went impulsively after him.

“Wallie!  Could you let me have a little more?  I do need it so!”

Still silent, he took the little roll from his pocket, and gave her another five dollars.  She saw still a third, and a one dollar bill.

But this was more than her wildest hopes.  Joyfully, she went, shabby and cold, through the happy streets.  She walked four blocks to a new market, and bought bread and butter and salt codfish and a candy cane.  She went into a department store, leaving Teddy to watch the coach on the sidewalk, and got him the gun and the book.  She gave her grocer four, her butcher three dollars, with a “Merry Christmas!” Did both men seem a little touched, a little pitying, or was it just the holiday air?  The streets were crowded, the leaden sky low and menacing; they would have a white Christmas.

Teddy hung up his stocking at dark.  The big things, he explained, would have to go on the floor.

“What big things, my heart?” Martie was toasting bread, eying the browned fish cakes with appetite.

“Well, the coaster or the skates!” he elucidated off-hand.

His mother’s breast rose on a long sigh.  She came to put one arm about him, as she knelt beside him on the floor.

“Teddy, dear, didn’t Mother tell you that old Santa Claus is poor this year?  He has so many, many little boys to go to!  Wouldn’t my boy rather that they should all have something, than that some poor little fellows should have nothing at all?” She stopped, sick at heart, for the child’s lip was trembling, and a hot tear fell on her hand.

“But—­but I’ve been good, Mother!” he stammered with a desperate effort at self-control.