She did not ask any more that she might see her two boys in life; she only prayed now that their dear bodies might be brought to her unmangled, to be robed for Christian burial.
To this end she began now to make all things ready. She put in order the little best room; she laid out the clean, new clothing, and the spotless sheets; she even took from her worn purse the four small coins to place upon the white, closed lids.
In the locked cupboard, where the boys should not see them till the time came, she found the Christmas presents she had thought to give to them this day.
Not much, indeed. A few cheap toys, some sweetmeats purchased secretly, a book or two, and, last of all, some little gifts that her own weary, loving hands had wrought in the long hours after the children were asleep.
And now the Christmas dawn had come; but the children—
She had not wept before, not since the first jar from the fall had rocked her cottage; but now, with the sight of these poor, simple Christmas gifts, there came some softening influence that moved her heart, and brought the swift tears to her eyes, and she sat down in her accustomed chair and wept—wept long and piteously, indeed, but in the weeping found relief.
She was aroused by a knock at the door. The latch was lifted, the door pushed open, and Sandy McCulloch stumbled in. He was out of breath, his eyes were wide with excitement, and down each side of his grimy face was a furrow where the tears had run.
The widow started to her feet.
“Sandy!”