It was past one o’clock when she finished the last of the roses. Tony was sleeping heavily. She turned down the gas and went to work.
The bed, left from the days of her housekeeping, had a high, slender white frame, meant to hold a canopy. From this down to the foot posts ran two cords carrying roses, and roses ran along the foot rail. Working slowly and quietly, she brought the tree from the other room to stand by his side. She had not yet had time to examine the ornaments—she and Tony could do that together. His stocking, the poor little disused stocking, with the big red apple and the orange, she tied to a bough reaching toward the little boy, like a friendly hand. The library books were spread open at pages of bright pictures. The chart of colored birds was pinned to the wall. The sprig of holly was fastened to the coverlet. At the last moment, from scraps of her green tissue, she had fashioned a semblance of holly wreath, with a bit of red paper twisted here and there for berries. She slipped behind the bed, and hung the wreath in the window. When, in the “little hours,” she crept to her own bed, she was without fatigue.
She woke at dawn, and was dressed and back in his room before he had opened his eyes. She lighted the gas, and then she kissed him.
“Merry Christmas, Tony!” she cried.
He struggled up, lovely with sleep. And in upon his dreams came the lines of the roses, and the soft greenness and beauty and brightness of the tree. He sat up, his head thrown back, an expression of almost angelic wonder in his believing face. And he was, with all his joy, a practical little Tony.
“W-w-where’d you get that?” he cried. “Oh, Mama! Mama! Mama!”
And there was something in his cry that opened Mother Margaret’s heart like a flower.
A child before its first Christmas tree, that is an experience apart. Tony was mute. Tony was shouting. Tony was leaning forward to touch things. Tony was leaning far back to win the effect of the whole. Tony was absolutely and unutterably happy.
So was Mother Margaret—for a while. Then Tony said an unexpected thing.
“Think,” he said, “that little Jesus was born to-day. Really, truly to-day.”