"You ain't sick, are you, Mommy?"
"I guess so. Come, you'd better say your prayers and go to bed. We don't have to keep the fire going so hard when you're all covered up."
It did not take long for the three little youngsters to divest themselves of the rags of clothing they wore. They slept in what passed for their underclothes, so there was no donning of white gowns for the night.
"Here are our stockings, Mommy," said the oldest, handing three ragged, almost footless, black stockings to the woman.
"It's no use, I tell you. I can't do it."
"It won't do any harm, Mommy," urged the girl.
"Do you believe in it, too?" asked the mother, and the girl shook her head. "You won't be disappointed in the morning if there's nothing in 'em?"
"No, I suppose it will be because Santa Claus was too busy."
With nervous fingers the woman hung the three stockings near the window. She was hungry, she was cold, she was broken, she was a mother. She could scarcely keep from crying.
"Maybe you'll be glad you did it," said the littlest girl drowsily.