But there would be no presents or merry greetings in her home, for she could not remember ever hearing either father or mother wish any of the family "Merry Christmas!" and a little candy on that day was among the dimmest pictures of her childhood.
"I'll make the fire, so that mother can sleep a little longer," she decided, lighting her candle, and beginning to dress with shivering alacrity. "And I'll be as helpful as I can all day, and perhaps father will give me some of the turkey money."
With shaking fingers she kindled the wood fire, and had the kettle boiling and the griddle heated for the cakes, when her mother came out of the bedroom, asking her what had wakened her so early, and telling her to dress the baby while she finished getting the breakfast ready.
Debby willingly brought the screaming baby out to the fire, where she washed and dressed him, soothing him with many motherly little airs. Sam and Jim ran down-stairs to hover over the red-hot stove; the father came in, bringing the pail of milk, stamping his feet, his beard white with his frozen breath; then they all sat down to breakfast by candle-light, and no one would have supposed, from their conversation, that they had ever heard of Christmas-day.
Immediately after breakfast Mr. Blanchard hurried away to dispose of his turkeys, taking the boys with him; Mrs. Blanchard heated the brick oven preparatory to a morning's baking, and Debby flew about as busily as the bee she represented, washing dishes, making beds, peeling vegetables, and tending the baby, lightening her labor with the thought of the money her father might possibly give her.
When it was time for him to return, she determined to keep in sight, as a kind of hint that some of the money should be given to her; not that she would ask him for it,—her askings were only for favors to the boys, made in much fear and inward shrinking; but she would just wait around and remind him by her presence that she had helped pick the turkeys.
But, with no understanding of the feverish anxiety that filled the heart of the little maiden who was moving briskly about the pleasant kitchen dishing up the dinner, Mr. Blanchard threw open the door with a chuckle. "Took every one of them and paid the money down," he announced, coming to the fire. "Got more than I expected, too, for his scales made them weigh more than ours, so I gained just thirty cents."
Debby thought that her heart stopped beating while she stood bewildered in the middle of the floor with a dish of potatoes in her hand, waiting to hear her father say that the extra money should be hers; but he merely asked if dinner were ready, and why she moved so slowly; guessed that sitting up so late made her lazy.
All her castles built of ice-cream, candy, pin-cushions, and fancy needle-books, fell to the ground with a crash as she set the dish on the table, leaving her with no appetite for dinner, not even for the first pumpkin-pie of the season.
She sat at the table absently tasting the savory pork stew, believing that no one else was ever as miserable as she, and that she should never feel like laughing again, when suddenly she remembered that she had twenty-four cents change left from the dollar that her father gave her to buy school-books, and she would—yes—she would give it to him as she was starting for the Fair, and perhaps he would say that she might keep it.