“That’s where I am going,” interrupted Henry.
“Yes,” continued Mary, “I suppose he can’t get back because of the snow. It’s an awful storm.”
“We haven’t anything to eat, and I don’t know when father will be back,” said George.
“And it’s Christmas Eve,” wailed Philip, who appeared to be about seven.
He set up a howl about this which his brother George, who was about nine, had great difficulty in quieting.
“We put the last shovelful of coal in the stove,” said Mary Wright, “and got into bed to keep warm.”
“I’ll go outside while you get up and dress,” said Henry considerately, “and then we will try and get to the car. It is warm there, and there is something to eat.”
“You needn’t go,” said the girl; “we are all dressed.” She threw back the covers and sprang out of bed. She was very pretty and about Henry’s own age, he discovered, although she was pale and haggard with cold and hunger.
“Goody, goody!” exclaimed little Philip, as his feet landed on the floor. “Maybe we’ll have some Christmas, too.”
“Maybe we will,” said Henry, smiling at him. “At least we will have something to eat.”