"Well, as sure as I'm setting here, old Mis' Falster uster come inter the Black Cat when she'd had more than was good for her out of the tea-pot, and recite yards of poetry standing on a chair and holding to the top of the screen. There hasn't been a hint of such a thing since then till—"
But the moment had come. The moment when the heart leaped to meet its desire. The moment when the desire materialized, and the soul asked no more.
Workworn faces quivered with happiness. Things that vanity had yearned for, but stern necessity had denied, were held now in trembling hands: precious gifts that one could do without, but were all the more sacred for that reason. Jewelry and pretty bits of useless neckwear, and gauzy handkerchiefs.
Useless? No. For they were to win admiration that was all but dead, and give sodden women an incentive to live up to them.
Little hungry-hearted children hugged dolls so beautiful, yet so human, that nothing more could be asked. Boys, awkward and red, shook like leaves as they fumbled with "buzzum pins" and gorgeous ties and fancy vests.
Sleds, skates and books abounded, and St. Angé, on that sacred day, revelled in the superfluous and the long-denied.
Constance Drew came upon Billy later, while games were in wild progress in the hall and study, seated in a dark corner of the dining room weeping as if his heart would break over a be-flowered vest and a rich red tie.
"Billy!"
"Yes'm." Billy was too far gone to make pretence.
"Don't you like—what you have?"