"Not one. Not one."
"I forgot." A little sigh of content. "You told me that before. You haven't any children of your real own, have you?"
"No dear."
"I'm glad of that."
She sighed in the same way again. Pillowed her head more deeply on his arm; inquired suddenly:
"God has a Child of his real own, hasn't He?"
"Yes, love."
"A little boy?"
"Was a little boy; yes, darling."
"I know. Because we keep His birthday; same as we keep mine. Only mine comes with the roses, His with the holly. You know—it is on Christmas day."