Lylda stood before it, bending down close over the glass.
"You give me back—my world," she breathed; then she straightened up, holding out her arms toward the ring. "My birthplace—my people—they are safe." And then abruptly she sank to her knees and began softly sobbing.
Loto called from upstairs and they heard him coming down. Lylda went back hastily to the fire; the Chemist pushed a large chair in front of the pedestal, hiding it from sight.
The boy, in his night clothes, stood on the hearth beside his mother.
"There is the stocking, mamita. Where shall I hang it?"
"First the prayer, Loto. Can you remember?"
The child knelt on the hearth, with his head in his mother's lap.
"Now I lay me——" he began softly, halting over the unfamiliar words. Lylda's fingers stroked his brown curly head as it nestled against her knees; the firelight shone golden in his tousled curls.
The Chemist was watching them with moist eyes. "His first Christmas," he murmured, and smiled a little tender smile. "His first Christmas."
The child was finishing.