“Why,” this newcomer said, “Mother! This is a friend of mine!”
Then Mother Margaret looked up, straight into the eyes of the pleasant-faced woman of the library.
“Oh!” cried Mother Margaret. “Oh!” And for a moment said no more. “I never knew I was going to ask this of you—when you’ve done so much!” she cried at last.
She turned to the older woman in mute apology. And she was actually filled with wonder when she saw that the eyes of the older woman were shining with tears.
They went into the little living-room and talked it over, how it could be managed. The two women saw—because they looked with the heart—that there must be no thought of the gift of another tree. It must be just as Mother Margaret had suggested. The tree must be lent for a part of to-morrow and returned in time for them to trim it on Christmas Eve.
“For the Dear Child,” said Mother Margaret; and then blushed beautifully. “Tony and I call her that,” she said.
“With that, they called the Dear Child to the room. The white-capped maid was putting her to bed, and brought her in, partly undressed, with surprisingly fat legs and arms and surprisingly thick curls.
“Honey,” the older woman said, “a little boy lives across the court. This is his mama.”
The Dear Child opened wide eyes.
“I know that little bit o’ boy,” she announced. “He—he—he—lives in the bed!”