“Yes, Nick,” said I, “Christmas Eve. What brings you out?”
“We thought we would like to pass an hour with you,” said Nick, “and walk about a bit.”
“I shall be glad of company,” I said, and so we walked on, talking of Christmas and what it meant.
Nan pressed something into my hand. It was a pipe; I have it now.
Nick pressed something into my hand. It was a packet of tobacco; that is smoked long years ago, but I can see, even at this distant day, what brought a touch of sacred tenderness into my feelings for them, as the curling wreaths of smoke from their Christmas gifts floated in the cold air.
A light snow was falling, but they did not mind that; nor did I. The stars were shining, and the moon came into the sky as the Christmas bells were ringing. We stopped and listened, and, cold as it was and poor as we were, something of the sweetness of the time entered our hearts, and we were gratefully happy.
A woman, in rags, passed us, shivering and muttering to herself. She stopped, as she saw us.
“Hullo, Mr. Dix,” she said, through her chattering teeth, and her voice sounded like a mixture of sobs and groans, “a Merry Christmas to yer! It is a Merry Christmas, ain’t it? Oh, wot a Merry Christmas it is!”
She stumbled past us, shuddering with cold, hugging misery to her breast in defiant despair.
I knew her. She was an unfortunate.