The procession started. Passers-by on the sidewalk stopped and looked in through the lighted window to see the cause of the disturbance. A flame sputtered as it burned perilously near a resinous twig.
"Halt!" called Mr. Fletcher. "Everybody blow!"
The lower flames vanished two and three at a time. Those higher up followed more slowly. At last but one flickering beacon at the top of the tree remained to defy all the boys' efforts. John's father watched in amusement, then gathered him up in his arms.
"Now, hard!" And the last candle went out.
Mrs. Fletcher suggested "Hot potatoes," and the minutes sped joyously past until the telephone rang.
"Tell Perry to come home for supper," was the message. That youngster slipped on his overcoat sulkily.
"Wish'd there wasn't any old telephones," he snapped as he opened the door.
His departure was a signal for a lull in the festivities. Mrs. DuPree sent a servant over for Sid, and the other boys followed shortly, leaving the family to watch in the darkness beside the parlor grate. Mrs. Fletcher broke the silence.
"It's been a beautiful Christmas," she said softly. "A beautiful Christmas."
John nodded contentedly from his father's knee. Again, the only sound to be heard in the room was the soft whick-whicker of the burning coal as the flames licked the chimney breast, or the occasional rustle of falling ash. Suddenly footsteps pounded up on the porch and the bell rang loudly. John opened the door, and Silvey came panting into the hallway with skates in one eager hand.