Unquestionably the tree talked to Tony. But the amazing thing was that it also talked to his mother, on her way down to the factory.
No sooner was she on the street from the happy holiday humor of their room than she was faced accusingly by the bustle and clamor of the streets on “the night before Christmas.” Everyone was intent on something outside himself. Everyone, Mother Margaret thought, would have known it was Christmas, if he had not been told.
All save Tony. Her heart smote her when she thought of that. For Tony in the little bed where he “lived,” all the blessedness and peace of tomorrow had descended to-day, and he had lived them faithfully. And on Christmas morning, on Star of Bethlehem morning for all the rest of the world, it would all be past for him; when for all the rest of the world it would be dawning....
Christmas dinner they ate together on Christmas Eve, there at Tony’s bedside, with a royal feast of one thing extra, spread on a little sewing table set in the shadow of the tree.
“Now, dear,” said Mother Margaret when they had finished, “the twenty-four hours is almost up, and the fairy is going to come for the tree. You’re sure you won’t mind—aren’t you?”
“Oh, yes, Mother!” Tony’s eyes were fastened on the tree as if he feared it might vanish if he looked away.
“And you are going to feel more glad that you had it than sorry to see it go?”
“Oh, yes, Mother!”
Tony’s eyes were still on the tree.
“I wish,” he said, “I wish Christmas was to-morrow, too. I like to feel like I feel when it’s Christmas.”