The clock struck six. It was Christmas morning! Jimsy awoke with the thought of turkey uppermost in his mind, to find Aunt Judith by his bed, a wonderful look of Christmas, he thought, in her gentle face.
"Dress quickly, Jimsy," she whispered, "and don't make a sound—not a sound! I'll wait outside by the door. It—it's a Christmas secret that nobody but you and I must know."
Jimsy tumbled into his clothes and opened the door.
"W-w-w-w-what is it, Aunt Judith?" he whispered.
But for answer Aunt Judith only hurried him in a flutter to the sewing-room, safe this many a year from the measured tread of first-citizen feet, and closed the door.
"Oh, Aunt Judith!" gulped the boy. "Aunt Judith!"
A Christmas tree winked and rainbowed glory in a window by the eaves, everything beneath its tinselled branches that the heart of boy could wish. The radiance in Jimsy's eyes brought Aunt Judith to her knees beside him, her sweet, tired eyes wet with tears of pleasure.
"You like it, Jimsy?" she whispered. "You're sure you like it, dear?"
Jimsy buried his face on Aunt Judith's shoulder with a strangled sob of excitement and delight.
"Aunt Judith," he blurted, "I—I can't 'mos' tell ye what I think."