"Will you walk down to the drugstore with me, Marjorie?" put in Constance, abruptly.
Marjorie glanced up to meet her friend's troubled gaze. In an instant she was on her feet.
"It's a good thing I didn't take off my hat and coat. I'm ready to go, you see."
"Charlie can watch for us at the window," suggested Constance, hugging the child. "We won't be long."
Once outside the house there was an eloquent silence. "It's dreadful, isn't it?" There was a catch in Constance's voice when finally she spoke.
"Can't he be cured?" queried Marjorie, softly.
"Yes; so a specialist said, if only we had the money."
"He is such a quaint child, and he really and truly believes in Santa Claus," mused Marjorie, aloud. "Most children of his age don't."
"He's different," was the quick reply. "He has been brought up away from other children and in a world of his own. He believes in fairies, too, good ones and bad ones. But he loves music better than anything else in the world, and his highest ambition in life is to play in the band. If only I had the money to make him well! I'd love to see him strong and sturdy like other children."
"You mustn't talk about such sad things to-day, but just be happy," counseled Marjorie, slipping her arm through that of her friend. "Charlie is cheerful and jolly in spite of his poor lame leg. Perhaps the New Year will bring you something glorious."