How Robin’s eyes shone as he was carried into the back parlour, where the little tree stood sparkling on a table drawn up beside the couch!
“There are presents on it, too,” says mother.
And so there were! For from every branch and twig dangled a series of coloured pasteboard discs, lettered in white ink, and reading thus:—
“A pearl ring, with much love to Elizabeth from mother.”
“A pair of skates, for dear Ernie from mother.”
“Lockhart’s Life of Scott,—three volumes, good type,—for Hazard from mother.”
“A canary in a gold cage, for Robin from mother.”
“An ermine muff and stole, for Elizabeth from mother,” etc., etc.
All the dear, beautiful, dream gifts that mother would have given to her children, if only she had been able!
The candles on the little tree began to blink and twinkle like living stars, the way lights will when looked at through happy tears. Even Robin understood.