“No,” said she. “There will be no Christmas.”
“But, Susan—”
Susan looked straight at her father. Her answer was final, but it was not rude; it sounded cruel, but the old man was neither hurt nor offended.
“This is my house, father. There can be no tree and no presents. I cannot stand a tree, and I have no money for presents.”
The old man uttered a single “But”—then he said no more. The faces of Thomas and Eliza dropped, but they said nothing. After a while they looked furtively at their grandfather, as though to see how this correcting of his plans affected him. When they saw that tears dropped from his eyes, they looked down upon their plates.
But grandfather was not long sad. He helped Susan to clear the table, then he sat down with the children. When they had finished their sums and had learned their spelling lesson and had read—toes on the stripe in the carpet, backs straight, books held in a prescribed manner—their reading lessons, he drew animals for them and cut rows of soldiers for Thomas and babies for Eliza. Their mother folded the shirts she had finished, laid fresh work on the machine for the morning, and sewed for an hour by hand on a dress for Eliza. Then she bade the children go to bed.
“Are you going to sit up, gran’pap?” she asked, gently.
“A little,” said gran’pap.
“Good-night,” said Susan.
Gran’pap sat by the table for a long time, his head on his hand. Gradually the expression of his face changed from sadness to a grim yet tender determination.