The widow bade him hush.
"Er never had nuthin' done to him, neither," the boy continued, rocking vigorously in his little chair.
"Mustn't speak so of Christ," the mother added.
"Wal," said Paul, rising, "I guess I'll hang up my stockin's."
"One'll do, Paul," said his sister Polly, with a knowing air.
"No, 'twon't," the boy insisted. "They ain't half 's big as yours.
I'm goin' t' try it, anyway, an' see what he'll do to 'em."
He drew off his stockings and pinned them carefully to the braces on the back of a chair.
"Well, my son," said Mrs. Vaughn, looking over the top of her paper, "it's bad weather; Santa Claus may not be able to get here."
"Oh, yes, he can," said the boy, confidently, but with a little quiver of alarm in his voice. "I'm sure he'll come. He has a team of reindeers. 'An' the deeper the snow the faster they go.'"
Soon the others bared their feet and hung their stockings on four chairs in a row beside the first.