The sun went down, and back came mamma and Susie, hollow-eyed and pale, but no Baby.
Not one of the children thought of stockings, or presents, or parties, or Christmas itself, that wretched Christmas Eve, but they clustered in silence, real silence this time, about their mother, until one by one they fell asleep.
But Mrs. Tutchy sat with dry, wide-opened eyes, listening—listening all night long, until the joyous morning chimes rang out upon the clear, frosty air.
As they ceased, the sharp ringing of the street door-bell echoed through the quiet house.
Dropping wee Maud from her lap, where she had slept for several hours, the poor little woman, her heart beating loud and fast, hastened with trembling steps to the door and flung it open.
There stood a tall, straight negro woman, with a gaudy turban on her head, a small boy, much darker than herself, clinging to her skirts with one hand, and yes—O, thanks to the good God—holding the rope of the boys’ sled with the other, baby in her arms!
Almost as wild with joy as she had been with sorrow, the mother snatched her darling, and covered her with kisses.
“Come in, come in,” she cried, in her old, pleasant voice, the tired gone out of her face, and her eyes shining bright with happiness.
Up jumped the Tutchy children from all corners of the room, and such a hurrahing and shouting of “Merry Christmas,” and kissing of Baby never was known, even in that house before.
“An’ now, yo’ Abraham Ulysses, yo’ jess tell the lady yo’ information,” said the woman to the grinning boy, pulling her dress out of his hand, and pushing him forward.