"Ain't you comin' to bed, too, Mommy?" asked the oldest, beneath the covers over the mattress on the floor.
"In a little while."
"And you won't forget to say your prayers?"
"I ain't said 'em for months, ever since your father was killed, and we got so poor."
"But you'll say 'em to-night 'cause it's Christmas eve?"
"Yes, to-night," said the mother; "now you go to sleep."
"Are you waitin' for him to come, Mommy?" asked the littlest girl, who was very sleepy.
"Yes," said the mother.
Presently, as she sat in the dark, having turned out the light, the deep breathing of the children told her they were asleep. She rose quietly, stepped to the window, and stood looking at the three shapeless, tattered stockings. She was high up in the tenement and the moonlight came softly over the house roofs of the city into the bare, cold, cheerless room. She stared at the stockings and tears streamed down her wasted cheeks. She had hung them low at the suggestion of the littlest girl so the children could easily get at them in the morning.