A message came for Mary about ten o’clock, brought by a scared little girl, who whispered it to her at the door. Mary apologized. She had to go out. The party broke up. Mary disappeared into the next room and returned in a shawl and bonnet, carrying a small brown paper parcel. Joan walked with her as far as the King’s Road.
“A little child is coming,” she confided to Joan. She was quite excited about it.
Joan thought. “It’s curious,” she said, “one so seldom hears of anybody being born on Christmas Day.”
They were passing a lamp. Joan had never seen a face look quite so happy as Mary’s looked, just then.
“It always seems to me Christ’s birthday,” she said, “whenever a child is born.”
They had reached the corner. Joan could see her bus in the distance.
She stooped and kissed the little withered face.
“Don’t stop,” she whispered.
Mary gave her a hug, and almost ran away. Joan watched the little child-like figure growing smaller. It glided in and out among the people.