"I've got three purple hyacinths almost ready to bloom, for your room—in glasses, you know!"
Now did not that seem an innocent remark? Yet Martha began simply to boo-hoo.
"I'm going to bed," she sobbed.
"I think you'd better." Emily wouldn't be sarcastic, but she spoke dryly. She insisted on going up and helping her get to bed. She kissed her shortly, for fear of more bewailings, and promised not to waken her in the morning.
"I'm nervous, because I can't sleep always," Martha apologized. "I'd rather sleep than do anything else. I'll never forgive you if you wake me up in the morning. I'll get up and come down to you just as soon as I wake up. Nobody ever had a better mother than I've got!"
"Oh, cut out the sobby stuff, Martie!" Emily exhorted her. "Don't be crying yourself to sleep. Have you got anything to read, if you don't think you'll sleep?"
"Oh yes. I don't need anything. Nothing."
After twelve the next day Emily returned from a morning's shopping. The Christmas crowds had thrust her about. They had pushed her and jostled her and jammed her into corners. But she was in a mood for it all. She could take it light-heartedly. They couldn't take the song from her. "O come, all ye faithful!" she kept humming to herself. Wasn't she prepared for Christmas? Wasn't she eager to kneel and worship the Eternal Child! It was almost as if Martha had been born to her again. She tipped the elevator boy exuberantly just because she was so happy, as she went up to her room.
Martha wasn't there. She couldn't be sleeping, surely, at that hour. She would go up to her room. She stood close to Martha's door. She called her softly; she called her not quite so softly, but carefully. Martha was awake inside. Martha was coming to the door.
Martha had on her fur coat, and her rosy hat, ready to go out. She drew her mother in. They kissed. "She's been crying again!" Emily thought. "She looks ghastly! She must have cried all night." Her eyes were dry, but ringed about with sunken circles. She spoke quietly. She seemed to be speaking from a great depth of—what?—not worry—a depth of hopelessness, Emily thought, quickly.