A stir from Anthony sent her back to his room. He was moving in the little bed “where he lived,” and Mother Margaret wiped her eyes and lighted the gas, and wondered how she could keep the happy news.
She went to him to arrange his pillow. He opened his eyes and smiled—as all his life long he had never failed to smile when first he opened his eyes and saw her. Then, at some memory, the eyes flew wide.
“Is to-morrow Christmas, Mama?”
Without just the combination of events which had set her head whirling, Mother Margaret would never have answered as she did.
“Yes, darling. To-morrow is Christmas.”
His face lighted, “Is it?” he cried. “Is it tomorrow?”
“Yes,” she said again, “to-morrow.”
“Will the s’prise be when I wake up?”
“Yes,” she said, “the surprise will be when you wake up.”
He smiled again, and drifted off to sleep. As she smoothed the tumbled covers, the old grip and terror came to her at sight of the little wasted body. The momentary qualm which she had felt died away. Why should he not believe that it was Christmas Day? She knew the heart of a child, knew that the day makes all the difference. Tony should think that he had one Christmas, in any case!