Twelve human beings for her to criticise, be jealous of, and, as like as not, hate. At least that was the way she chose to put it, but this is Mrs. Grey's version:
"They'll all come, this year; my darling boys and girls, and their little folks. Will they find it somewhat awkward, before they get acquainted with Margaret? It will be trying for her, poor child, to see a mother and children together."
However, she had tact—the kind of tact that comes from Christian instincts. She talked to Margaret about the home-comers, exactly as if they were her brothers and sisters, got her interested, asked her to manage a Christmas-tree, and consulted her about everything.
"Do the children have a tree every year?" asked Margaret.
"Oh, yes—every year."
"Then I should like to get up something different; I don't know what, but I can think out a plan."
The next morning she came down as radiant as the sun.
"I have a plan," she announced, "and now I must have a carpenter."
The carpenter was forthcoming, the plan shown him; he had little folks of his own, and entered into the fun of the thing, gleefully. Christmas Eve arrived, and the house was full. As lively greetings were exchanged, Margaret began to shrink into herself, and to wish she could hide in some cranny till all was over. Is this natural? Is this picture true to life? It is. Reality never tries to shine, to display its plumage or clap its wings. It is Unreality that comes strutting forward, crying, "Go to, and admire my gifts!"