All this time, Mary Elizabeth watched anxiously for the postman. The time set for the close of the contest came and passed. No letter was brought to Mary Elizabeth. She knew that she would have had a letter if she had won any prize, of course. But Mary Elizabeth, with her heart heavy as lead, wondered whether she had really ever believed she would win. She admitted that she had. She was sure her work was right—that is, all answers were correct. The writing was neat. There were no blots. She had done her very best.
Mary Elizabeth was too soldierly to cry. She told nobody. She set about planning how she would cut paper ornaments out of colored wall papers and paste them together. She would make some paper dolls and dress them like fairies with the tissue paper she had. She would make wings with tissue paper, too. She would ask Mother to let her make some gingerbread animals and men to use on the tree. She would gild some nuts and pinecones maybe. There was the star. There was the box of candles. Those were something! But if only she did have money, she would trim her tree with the emblems of all the Allies and have a really soldierly Christmas tree!
Mary Elizabeth went into her room and locked her door tight. She took the key of her lower bureau drawer and sat down upon the floor beside it and drew it out. In it lay all the Christmas tree things with the box of candles and the star. As she looked at the bright Christmas things, a tear dropped upon her lap—oh, it might have been so different!
Why is it that when one is just in the midst of Christmas planning somebody comes to the door and knocks? Did you ever spread all your things out on a bed or a table or on the floor and fail to have somebody come to knock at your door and demand to be let in right away? There came a knock at Mary Elizabeth’s—but first, the latch had been tried. “Let me in, Mary Elizabeth!” cried Brother.
“I can’t,” returned Mary Elizabeth.
“You can.”
Thump-thumpety-thump.
“Go ’way,” admonished Mary Elizabeth. “I shan’t let you in! You can’t come in.”
“Well, you’ll be sorry,” said the muffled voice of Brother. “You’ll be sorry,” but he left off knocking at the door and ran away. Mary Elizabeth wondered if perhaps he suspected about the play of Santa Claus. He was getting to be quite big. Maybe he knew about the tree. Maybe he would have to be let into the fun of Christmas planning next year—but was it fun? Wasn’t it dreadful to worry about the tree and plan how to make it all new? No, it was not worry! No, it was not! Mary Elizabeth denied this stoutly. It was part of the self-sacrifice of Christmas to think about it as she had—and there would be a lovely tree! Yes, there would, somehow; she’d manage to make a grand surprise of it. Oh, yes, she would. Mary Elizabeth smiled and was ashamed of that little hot tear. She put the Christmas tree things back into the drawer one by one and she closed and locked the drawer. Then she went to the window and looked out across the snow. She thought maybe some cotton would look pretty and snowy on the tree like that. She heard Brother at the door again but she wasn’t quite ready to let him in. She wanted to be alone and think. She did not want to tell stories about Santa Claus.
His little voice came plaintively, “Please, Mary Elizabeth, let me in. I’ll tell you something nice, if you’ll let me in.” But Mary Elizabeth was not ready to hear what Brother thought Santa Claus was going to bring. She did not go to the door. Then she heard his soft little footsteps trot away down the hall and she felt sorry. She opened the door to run after him and there, where Brother had left it, there lay a big square envelope with the name of the magazine upon it!