FullReads

“O Alice! see the red sparks going about,” he said, looking at the wandering points of light in the blackening scrolls of shrivelled paper.

“Nurse says those are people going to church,” said his sister, authoritatively.

Her mother looked up, smiling. “Ah, that is what they used to tell me when I was little.”

“They’re fire-flies,” said the boy, “like in a vewy dark night.” Now and then his r’s troubled him a little, and conscious of his difficulty, he spoke at times with oddly serious deliberation.

“You really must be quiet,” said the mother. “Now, do keep still, or you will have to go to bed,” and so saying she turned anew to the basket.

Presently the girl exclaimed, “Why do you burn the letters?” She had some of her mother’s persistency, and was not readily controlled. This time the mother made no reply. A sharp spasm of pain went over her features. Looking into the fire, as if altogether unconscious of the quick spies at her side, she said aloud, “Oh! I can no more! Let them wait. What a fool I was. What a fool!” and abruptly pushed the basket aside.

The little fellow leaped up and cast his arms about her while his long, yellow hair fell on her neck and shoulder. “O Mamma!” he cried, “don’t read any more. Let me burn them. I hate them to hurt you.”

She smiled on him through tears–rare things for her. “Every one must bear his own troubles, Hugh. You couldn’t help me. You couldn’t know, dear, what to burn.”

“But I know,” said the girl, decisively. “I know. I had a letter once; but Hugh never had a letter. I wish Kris Kringle would take them away this very, very night; and lessons, too, I do. What will he bring us for Christmas, mamma? I know what. I want”–

“A Kris Kringle to take away troubles would suit me well, Alice; I could hang up a big stocking.”

“And I know what I want,” said the boy. “Nurse says Kris has no money this Christmas. I don’t care.” But the great blue eyes filled as he spoke.

The mother rose. “There will be no presents this year, Hugh. Only–only more love from me, from one another; and you must be brave and help me, because you know this is not the worst of it. We are to go away next week, and must live in the town. You see, dears, it can’t be helped.”

“Yes,” said Hugh, thoughtfully, “it can’t be helped, Alice.”

“I don’t want to go,” said the girl.

“Hush,” said Hugh.

“And I do want a doll.”

“I told you to be quiet, Alice,” returned the mother, a rising note of anger in her voice. In fact, she was close upon a burst of tears, but the emotions are all near of kin and linked in mystery of relationship. Pity and love for the moment became unreasoning wrath. “You are disobedient,” she continued.

“O mamma! we are vewy sorry,” said the lad, who had been the less offending culprit.

“Well, well. No matter. It is bed-time, children. Now to bed, and no more nonsense. I can’t have it, I can’t bear it.”

The children rose submissively, and, kissing her, were just leaving the room, when she said: “Oh! but we must not lose our manners. You forget.”

The girl, pausing near the doorway, dropped a courtesy.

“That wasn’t very well done, Alice. Ah! that was better.”

The little fellow made a bow quite worthy of the days of minuet and hoop, and then, running back, kissed the tall mother with a certain passionate tenderness, saying, softly, “Now, don’t you cry when we are gone, dear, dear mamma,” and then, in a whisper, “I will pway God not to let you cwy,” and so fled away, leaving her still perilously close to tears. Very soon, up-stairs, the old nurse, troubled by the children’s disappointment, was assuring them with eager mendacity that Kris would be certain to make his usual visit, while down-stairs the mother walked slowly to and fro. She had that miserable gift, an unfailing memory of anniversaries, and now, despite herself, the long years rolled back upon her, so that under the sad power of their recurrent memories she seemed a helpless prey.