“Sure and is the king ready for the feast?” called out Patrick’s voice.
“Yes, oh, yes!” said the little boy, breathlessly; “but, Patrick, Patrick, do hang this on the tree for Mrs. Darling, won’t—”
He stopped short, for at his door stood a bowing Patrick in a shabby black suit, and a curtseying Nora in a bright blue dress. Between them they held a cushion. The little boy recognized it. It was one of the green plush cushions from the headmaster’s couch, and he laughed aloud.
“If you’ll be climbin’ on the pillow,” said Nora, as they lowered it between them, “we’ll be carryin’ you to the feast.”
Somehow when the little boy—white and fair and eager—was perched on the cushion, he did look like a flaxen-haired little king, between two loyal subjects. It was a very serious matter to him, and although his mouth would curl at the corners when they fell out of step, his eyes were very grave, and he bowed his head first to Mrs. Darling, then to the cook, who awaited him at the foot of the stairs.
“Three cheers for the king!” shouted old Patrick at the top of his voice.
“Three cheers!” they called.
“Let the king make a speech,” cried Patrick, and Mrs. Darling echoed, “Speech!”
“Oh!” cried the little boy. Then he recovered himself, and his eyes wandered over their heads, beyond, to the closed door. “Dear, dear people,” he said, in a hurried, breathless sort of way, “may this be the—the—merriest Christmas you have ever had. May you get whatever you want—even if it is the impossiblest thing in the world—even if it—it—costs so much—”
“Ah hah!” cried Patrick quite forgetting that a king must never be interrupted, no matter how long he takes. “Ah hah, it’s a pair of gloves I’m wishin.’ for, but never a glove will I get!”