“I should say you could. You’ll have to be about the whole of it. Starting this Christmas, I’m going to have a tree—right here in this room—close to Uncle William’s chair!”
“By Jove! and for—for whom?”
“Why, Con, how unimaginative you are! For you, for me, for Uncle William, for any one—any really right person, young or old—who needs a Christmas tree. Somehow, I have a rigid belief that some one will always be waiting. It may not be an empty-handed baby. Perhaps you and I may have to care for some dear old soul that others have forgotten. We could do this for Uncle William, couldn’t we, Con?”
“Yes, my darling.”
“The children cannot always know what they are missing, but the old can, and my heart aches for them often—aches until it really hurts.”
“My dear girl!”
“They are so alike, Con, the babies and the very aged. They need the same things—the coddling, the play, the pretty toys to amuse them—until they fall asleep.”
“Lynda, you are all nerves and fancies. Pretty ones—but dangerous. We’ll have our tree—we’ll call it Uncle William’s. We’ll take any one—every one who is sent to us—and be grateful. And that makes me think, we must have a particularly giddy celebration up at the Sanatorium. McPherson and I were speaking of it to-day.”
“Con, I wonder how many secret interests you have of which I do not know?”
“Not many.”