"Not as I knows of, but they may for Christmas. I sye, are you lookin' forward to your Christmas, kiddy?"
"Angel—that's Mother, I mean—says I'm not going to have much of a Christmas this year. I'm trying not to mind. I suppose it's because Santa Claus can't get to the Riviera, with his sleigh and reindeer. How could he, Miss Jane, when there's no snow, and not even a scrap of ice?"
"Pshaw!" said Miss Jane. "It ain't Santa Claus brings you things, snow or no snow. Only babies believe that. You're old enough to know better. It's your father and mother does it all."
"Are you sure?" asked Rosemary.
"Dead sure. Don't be a silly and cry, now, just because there ain't any Santa Claus, nor any fairies."
"It isn't that," said the little girl. "It's because I can never have any more Christmases, if it depends on a father. You know, I haven't a father."
"I supposed you 'adn't, as 'e ain't 'ere, with yer ma," replied the young person. "She's mighty pretty."
"I think she's the prettiest mother in the world," said Rosemary, proudly.
"She don't look much like a mother."
The child opened her eyes very wide at this new point of view. "I couldn't have a mother who looked any other way," she said. "What do you think she does look like?"