The Boy-Next-Door held his breath for fear he would wake up from this entrancing dream and find himself in his own big house, alone in his puffy bed, or eating breakfast with his stodgy parents who had never played with him in his life. He found himself laughing too, and flushed and happy, and trying to sing in his funny boy’s voice,
“Heigh-o, says Anthony Rowley!”
The Small Girl absolutely refused to eat the mouse. “He’s my darling Christmas mouse, Mother.”
So her mother said, “Well, I’ll put him on the clock again, where Pussy-Purr-up can’t get him while we are out.”
“Oh, are we going out?” said the Small Girl, round-eyed.
“Yes.”
“Where are we going?”
“To find Christmas.”
That was all the Small Girl’s mother would tell. So they had breakfast, and everything tasted perfectly delicious to the Boy-Next-Door. But first they bowed their heads, and the Small Girl’s father said,
“Dear Christ-Child, on this Christmas morning, bless these children, and help us all to keep our hearts young and full of love for Thee.”