“Is it a ball you’re wantin’?”
“Oh, no!”
“A steam-engine?”
“No!”
“A pair of boxin’-gloves?”
“No—no—no! It’s—my—mother—I want!” he said, with a sob.
“Hullo!” said Patrick, flinging the door open suddenly, “and why couldn’t you have said that long ago, instid of keepin’ her sittin’ here and waitin’ for you full half an hour—”
******
Late that night, after Nora, with her red scarf over her shoulders, had gathered up the remains of the Christmas feast, and only a low, red, cozy light gleamed beneath the burnt-out logs, the little boy raised his head from his mother’s shoulder and laid his hand on her cheek.
“But it cost so much to come!” he said softly, with a little shake in his voice. She drew him down in her arms, with a way mothers have.