Just a little later, Mr. Burnell said to his wife, "I'm sorry we didn't get our things in the village, Maria; but it's too late now. Don't say anything to the children. It'll be bad enough when it comes."
Nobody else heard him, but Mrs. Burnell looked as if she wanted to cry.
That was one of the whitest nights anybody in the world ever saw, for the snow had thrown the thickest kind of a white blanket over everything. Some of the roads were drifted level from fence to fence, and the railroads were having a tremendous time of it. Anything so black as a locomotive could hardly feel at home, pushing its way along through so white a country or into so white a village as Middleville was that Christmas-eve.
It was a dreadfully long night, and Petish woke up three times, and tried to make herself believe it was morning. The last time she heard the great clock in the Academy steeple, on the village green, pounding away at its task of telling what time it was.
"I'll count," said Petish. "Nine—twelve—seven—fourteen—fiveteen—six—I guess it's 'most time to get up. Must be it's Christmas now."
Just then she heard a noise in the next room, and she listened with all her ears. First it was a rustle, and then the loudest kind of a whisper—loud enough to have been heard in daytime.
"Rad! Rad! it's just struck five. Let's take a scoot down stairs and see about it. We can hurry right back again."
"They're pulling on their stockings," said Petish. "I'll get up and pull on mine, but I won't let them see me."
She tried very hard to get up without waking Molly; but it was of no use, for Molly's sleep had been begun at the right time, and was fairly over now, considering that it was Christmas morning.
"Oh, Petish, what are you going to do?"