"Is he dead, Mums?" Chris whispered.
Mrs. Inglefield looked at them sorrowfully.
"He is very, very ill, dear. It is bad concussion of the brain, and he may be unconscious for a long time. We must ask God to spare his precious little life."
A choke came in her voice, then she seemed to pull herself together.
"We must have some tea. Nurse is watching by him, and I will go and relieve her soon. Come along."
That was a most miserable meal for both mother and children.
Noel's chair opposite his cake was empty. His cheerful little voice, which was always making itself heard, was hushed and silent now. Would they ever hear it again, his mother wondered?
And at last in desperation Chris spoke out his thoughts:
"Why has God let it happen on his birthday and on Christmas night, Mums? Any other time it wouldn't have been so bad."
"Be quiet," said Diana in a whisper, giving him an angry nudge. "You'll only make Mums more miserable."