“What did Patrick mean? When are we going to begin? Oh, what ever does Patrick, and Nora, and the cook want for Christmas? What do you suppose I can give them that will make them ever so happy?”
“Help! help! Your Majesty!” cried Mrs. Darling, putting her hands over her ears. But the little boy persisted.
“Please, couldn’t I give them something?”
“Well,” said Mrs. Darling, importantly, “if you won’t tell, I have a present for each one of them.”
“Oh, but you had them to give yourself!”
“It doesn’t matter who gives things, Your Majesty, so long as people get them. It’s the getting them that counts.”
The little boy nodded gravely. There was a great deal in that. And he waited for Mrs. Darling to continue.
“There are a pair of heavy woolen mittens for Patrick to keep his hands warm all winter, and for Nora a red scarf of just the right shade to set off her black hair and eyes. For the cook there is a stout new pair of overshoes, hers being worn to the very sole.”
But still the boy was not satisfied. Mrs. Darling saw it in his eyes, and she guessed the reason.
“As for me,” she said carelessly, “I don’t expect to get anything—let alone what I really want and need most of anything in the world.”