“AN OLD WHITE LEGHORN COVERED WITH FADED FLOWERS.”
“That is all,” said Mrs. Haloran at last. “No, here is a dear little suit, just right for Davie. And, John, read this note: ‘It was my little boy’s that is gone.’” Her overwrought nerves gave way then. “Oh, John,” she cried, her head on his breast, his arms around her, “we have Davie, anyway, if we haven’t the clothes for him. Poor, poor mother!”
A moment later she was putting the garments back.
“It is a disappointment,” she said, “but we certainly will not let it spoil our Christmas. We are no worse off, at any rate, than we were before. The things I have will insure the children’s good time. The candy alone would do that.... John, get me the candy! I’m going to fill the bags now—to take away the bad taste of this barrel.”
The moment which John Haloran had been dreading was upon him.
“Mary, I didn’t get the candy.”
“Didn’t get it?” she echoed blankly.
“No. I used the money to finish paying freight on this barrel.”
“John Haloran! You didn’t!”