“Great God!” he muttered, “how she has suffered!” and he was about to rush in and take her into his arms.  On the threshold he restrained himself, paused, and said, “No, not jet; I’ll break the news of my return in my own way.  The shock of my sudden appearance might be too great for her;” and he went back to the window.  The wife’s eyes were following her children with such a wistful tenderness that the boy, catching her gaze, stopped his sport, came to her side, and began to speak.  They were but a few feet away, and Marlow caught every word.

“Mamma,” the child said, “you didn’t eat any breakfast, and I don’t believe you have eaten anything to-day.  You are always giving everything to us.  Now I declare I won’t eat another bit unless you take half of my cake;” and he broke off a piece and laid it in her lap.

“Oh, Jamie,” cried the poor woman, “you looked so like your father when you spoke that I could almost see him;” and she caught him in her arms and covered him with kisses.

“I’ll soon be big enough to take care of you.  I’m going to grow up just like papa and do everything for you,” the boy said proudly as she released him.

Little Susie also came and placed what was left of her cake in her mother’s lap, saying: 

“I’ll work for you, too, mamma; and to-morrow I’ll sell the doll Santa Claus gave me last Christmas, and then we’ll all have plenty to eat.”

Anson Marlow was sobbing outside the window as only a man weeps; and his tears in the bitter cold became drops of ice before they reached the ground.

“My darlings!” the mother cried.  “Oh, God spare me to you and provide some way for us!  Your love should make me rich though I lack all else.  There, I won’t cry any more, and you shall have as happy a Christmas as I can give you.  Perhaps He who knew what it was to be homeless and shelterless will provide for our need; so we’ll try to trust Him and keep His birthday.  And now, Jamie, go and bring the rest of the coal, and then we will make the dear home that papa gave us cheery and warm once more.  If he were only with us we wouldn’t mind hunger or cold, would we?  Oh, my husband!” she broke out afresh, “if you could only come back, even though crippled and helpless, I feel that I could live and grow strong from simple gladness.”

“Don’t you think, mamma,” Jamie asked, “that God will let papa come down from heaven and spend Christmas with us?  He might be here like the angels, and we not see him.”

“I’m afraid not,” the sad woman replied, shaking her head and speaking more to herself than to the child.  “I don’t see how he could go back to heaven and be happy if he knew all.  No, we must be patient and try to do our best, so that we can go to him.  Go now, Jamie, before it gets too late.  I’ll get supper, and then we’ll sing a Christmas hymn; and you and Susie shall hang up your stockings, just as you did last Christmas, when dear papa was with us.  We’ll try to do everything he would wish, and then by and by we shall see him again.”