“No—not unless—oh, Nora, the hat-tree! The hat-tree!”
“The hat-tree, is it? A shiny mahogany tree? Oh, it’s better than that we can do.”
“I believe,” his eyes were very bright—“I believe that would do all right. Of course we’d have to pretend it was a glorious tree that reached to the ceiling, and that it was aglow with candles—and—and, Nora, w-we could play I was the king, and you, and Mrs. Darling, and old Patrick, and the cook were poor subjects that I had invited in for the—the—feast; and we could have apples—and stockings—and nuts—and—”
“Sure, I don’t believe Mrs. Darlin’ will be lettin’ you do it.”
But just at that moment Mrs. Darling, bearing a big tray, appeared.
“Guess what you’re going to have for supper to-night,” she called across the cloud of steam that rose, but the little boy was too eager to guess.
“Oh, Mrs. Darling!” he cried, “can’t we have a Christmas party here? Can’t we have you and Nora and Patrick and—”
“A Christmas party! And this Christmas eve! Whatever are you thinking of? With Nora, and old Patrick, and no tree or nothing—”
Something about the little boy’s face stopped her short. Perhaps it was his eyes. You see, they had grown very large and “wishful” since his illness, and they had a way of speaking much more distinctly than his lips. He did not say a word, but just watched Mrs. Darling until she felt a big lump spring into her throat.
“I guess we can manage it somehow,” she said suddenly, “although I don’t see exactly how.”