Christmas morning, the true Christmas morning, came with a white mantle and a bright face. Mother Margaret woke to hear the city one tumbling peal of early bells. She sprang up and threw on her dressing gown, with her pretty hair falling about her shoulders, and ran to Tony’s room. He was still asleep. Resolutely, and even joyously, she stooped and kissed him.
“Tony, dear!” she said—but there was something like a sob in her voice. “Wake up! It’s Christmas morning!”
His eyes flew open, and stared straight into her eyes.
“It’s Christmas morning,” she repeated tremulously.
A look of pain came to his face.
“Did I dream my tree?” he asked.
“No!” she cried, “no, dear. You did have your tree. Mother told you yesterday was Christmas because we could just have the tree that day—and she wanted you to have all the fun—all of it, Tony—” She broke down, and buried her face in his warm neck.
Something of the solemnity and old wisdom born in a child when a grown person apologizes, or explains, or in any wise treats him as an equal, came growing in Tony’s face. But this was over-shadowed now, by a dawning joy.
“Mother!” he cried. “Truly? Truly, is it Christmas again?”
“Not again,” she said. “But it’s Christmas.”