"Oh, then, I can spend all these five centses. The doctor picked them all out of his pocket for me, and told me to buy vi'lets for mamma. So, I have to. Ten five centses, see. I told mamma I would come right back. She is watching out of the window for me."
Bill's face took on a little sunshine. Ten bunches! Why, it would nearly clean out his stock. What luck!
"Say," he said, in a low voice, "'bout that Santa Claus, you know. Time's gittin' clost."
"Yes," said Elinor, eagerly holding out her hands to receive the violets.
"I don't believe he comes to poor folks," continued Bill; "mind, I don't say there ain't no Santa Claus; but I say he ain't no friend o' folks what lives in Hitchen's court."
"Oh, but he is. Dr. Brewster says so, and he knows everyfing—he does truly—and he told me to tell you that there was a Santa Claus, really, really." Bill stared at the ground. "And he said if you put your letter in the box, Santa Claus will surely get it there, and you will get an answer. So, now," and she walked off with a little switch of her skirts, and a decided sort of air, as she would say there was no further doubt possible.
Bill looked after her. Ten bunches of violets meant a corresponding amount of faith, and an hour later an empty box lid went home with him. But the very fact of the emptiness of the box cover meant a fullness of belief. And Gerty; poor little, rickety Gerty, also received a prop to her faltering hopes in Bill's words. "They are a Sandy Claus, Gert, sure as shootin'! A big bug what I knows about says so. Ain't you glad?"
"Are you goin' to believe in him?" asked Gerty, in an excited whisper.
"Yes, I am," sturdily returned Bill.