"He would never have thrown us away," she murmured to herself.
The night passed in speculation and very little sleep; and when the first rays of light peeped in through the shades, one of the balls—a blue one—was discovered on the ground in pieces. He had thrown himself down rather than be thrown away.
The maids came early, and the work of undoing the tree began. Slowly the larger articles, including the tinsel animals, were removed and put away, until nothing remained but a few cheaper paper ornaments and the sad eleven balls, with their pride gone, and their souls humbled to the dust. For they were to be thrown out,—they, the pride of the Christmas tree table, and all their boasts were for nothing. The rich had bought them, and now the rich were throwing them away. The thought of the ash can made them shiver, and the gold ones hoped they would break in the act.
"I thought Christmas Day was different from other days," remarked a small, ragged boy to a larger, but equally ragged little girl, as they slipped and slid on the icy pavement on Christmas morning, in search of any odd bits that might be left in the ash cans that plentifully sprinkled the edge of the curb at this early hour.
"It is different, someway," answered the small girl, vaguely. "There's presents for some folks and trees, I think it's trees, for others."
"Trees? What for? I don't think a tree is much of a present," sniffed the little boy, contemptuously, "I'd rather have a drum."
"I don't mean a plain tree, Jimmy Tyler, I mean a tree all hung with things made out of shining stuff, and candles, and gold glass balls." Jimmy was struck dumb.
"Gold glass, O my! I ain't never seen gold glass," he gasped.