"Saturday we will trim it," Catherine promised them, "and Saturday night you can each wrap your presents in red paper and label them."
"Then you'll see them when we are in bed," protested Marian.
"I won't take a single peek!"
Saturday afternoon Catherine stood on a chair, hunting on the top shelf of the hall closet for the box of tinsel and small tree lights. Surely she had left it there on that shelf. She smiled a little, at her own warm content. The shimmering joy of the children had thrown its glow over her, too, and the sardonic Christmas of the streets seemed remote, unreal.
"Hurry up, Muvver dear!" called Marian. "Isn't it there?"
Catherine felt the corner of a pasteboard box, tugged at it, caught it as it slipped over the edge of the shelf, the cover whirling past her hand.
She stared at the contents—a handbag of soft, tooled leather, with carved fastenings of dull gold. Guiltily she reached for the cover at her feet. She had stumbled upon Charles's hiding place. He shouldn't have been so extravagant. Her fingers brushed the soft brown surface in a swift caress as she pushed on the cover, and rose to tiptoe to replace the box.
There, the other box was in the corner.
"What are you after up there?" Charles spoke sharply from the door.
Catherine, her cheeks flushing, dragged out the box of trimmings.