Her voice stopped of its own will—stopped, and steadied itself bravely, and went on again:
“Why, then,” she said, “Mother just couldn’t bear it at all.”
“Truly, Mother, truly!” said Anthony. “I know we can’t—I do know. Oh, but—why, Mother Margaret! That’s what makes it so nice to see the wreath! It’s just as if we almost had a wreath in our window—isn’t it, though?”
“Almost, almost,” she said, and went back to her paper flowers. She had six dozen red roses to make before Christmas Eve.
“And then the snow,” Anthony was saying eagerly. “Why, Mother, it’s like all the Christmas pictures. It’s like the Christmas cards. And oh, Mother,—think! It’s just as nice and white for us as if we lived no matter where!”
“Yes,” said his mother bitterly, “the snow and the cold are about the only things that are the same for us as for everybody.”
Anthony half closed his eyes and lay watching happily. Mother Margaret went on with her roses. As she worked, her lips were moving. But she was not counting the petals, as one would have supposed. She was counting, as she almost always counted, what she had in her purse and what she must spend. And when one counts like this, all day long, it begins to show in one’s face, in one’s voice, in all one’s ways. Anthony was seven. It was six years since his father had died. And every year of these six years she had been fighting to keep Anthony with her. But this meant that she counted all day long.
At five o’clock Mother Margaret went out with half her roses. At the factory she sent them in and asked, as she did each time, for more tissue paper. The manager looked doubtful. Had she enough to finish her order? Oh, yes, she said; but she carried a little back at each delivery. The man returned. She would have to wait—everyone was busy with the rush mail orders. They could give out no paper till Monday.
As she went out, she lingered and looked about her. She did not guess what a pretty picture she made in her old brown coat and hat which just matched her eyes. What about all these women, she was wondering. Some of them must have little children at home. And they must have to count almost as much as she counted. She wished that she knew how they meant to manage about Christmas. Was there anything that she could do, if she knew how to do it, for Anthony’s Christmas?
A middle-aged woman was packing boxes near her. Mother Margaret went shyly to her.