Father agreed. “Maybe we’d better. It’s not nice to think of anybody sitting down all by themselves to a cold bite on Christmas!”
“When we have so much,” Mother went on. “You’d better stop and ask her when you go for the mail to-night.”
Footsteps on the porch. Father and Mother break into smiles. “There’s Alice,” they exclaim in unison.
Quick stamping of snow on the scraper, quick opening of the door, a quick rush of cold wind and a quick, joyous child’s voice.
“Mother, the holly’s come; Father, look at this! Isn’t it lovely? Mr. Harris just got in now with the wagon from Wanesburg. And he brought a big box of it. He has wreaths, too, but they’re a quarter apiece. I think the bunch is prettier and it was only a dime. Look at the berries!”
The child’s cheeks are as scarlet as her red toboggan and sweater, that Mother herself had knitted. Her blue eyes are shining and eager, her light hair tossed by the wind.
“Put it up quick, Father, and I’ll get the red ribbon for it.” She flies up stairs, stumbling in her haste.
Suddenly, laughter below, expostulation, hurrying feet in the front hall. “Alice, Alice, don’t open the under drawer of my bureau! You didn’t, did you? Mercy, we had such a scare! The ribbon’s in the top drawer, left hand side. Now mind, no looking any where else!”
“And holly at the door....”
Father’s big voice booming out happily.