The sunny playroom was decked with Christmas greens, and the little convalescents had a holiday air, for each girl wore a bright red ribbon on her hair and each boy either a bright red necktie or a bit of red ribbon in his buttonhole. There were, just as before, many, many bandaged limbs and bodies, and many children on crutches or lying in go-carts; there were the same happy patient expressions on the children’s faces, only to-day, their faces were lighted up with the excitement of Christmas and with eager interest in the presents they were to receive.
The nurses, the Club, and Mr. Danforth, all helped quickly to distribute the gifts, and it was not long before every little girl in the room was hugging a new doll and every little boy was admiring a new top, or a tin soldier large enough to stand alone; and then there was another present for each one of the children; for out of Mr. Danforth’s box came dozens of gray squirrel-shaped boxes filled with simple candy,—until the great playroom looked as if a forestful of tiny, tame gray squirrels had been let loose there.
It was a wholly new experience to Mr. Ned Danforth to see all these little patient, crippled human beings. Like many busy men in the world, he had been in the habit of signing his name to a check and sending it to this or that hospital or charitable institution which he was asked to help. But this was the first time in his life that he had ever stepped inside such a place as the Convalescent Home; and at first it seemed to him that he could not bear the sight, that almost forty years old as he was, he would have to run away like a schoolboy, because the sight of those convalescent children made him feel so sad. But he could not run away; he was there in charge of the Christmas Makers’ Club. So all he could do to relieve his feelings was to put his hand into his pocket where he always kept a great many five-cent and ten-cent pieces,—being a generous-natured man,—and begin giving these pieces of money to the children.
So he started to walk very fast through the playroom, dropping into the hands or the laps of the children five-cent pieces, ten-cent pieces, pennies, silver quarter-dollars, even half-dollars, here and there, right and left, as long as they lasted. And the nurses, in great fear lest the little children put the money into their mouths and swallow it, followed closely after him, taking the money away from the surprised children, who were so used to being obedient that they gave it up without any fuss, and kind-hearted Uncle Ned did not know what was happening behind him.
Ben and Alice, Betty and Elsa were all too much occupied to notice, either. Ben was surrounded by a group of his own particular little friends, the boys whom he took out driving; Alice and Betty were coaxing shy little girls to talk about their new dolls, and Elsa had found out the black-eyed child in whose arms she had seen her own old china doll, Bettina, on her first visit here.
The child’s frame was strapped to a board, just as Elsa had seen it before; but she called out cheerily: “I am all better! See my new dolly!” On the floor by her side lay the old doll, so battered and changed that only one who had loved her as Elsa had would have recognized her.
Elsa picked up the old doll tenderly, saying to herself: “I will hold her till the little girl remembers and wants her.” “What is your new doll’s name?” she asked the child.
“’Tina.”
“What is the old doll’s name?” Elsa held the battered doll out in plain sight.
“’Tina,” said the little girl, reaching out for the old doll and blissfully clasping the old and the new together in her arms.