As the lawyer was leaving the store, he remembered something, and turned back.
“I forgot,” he said, “I wanted to buy a tree”—
“Just round the corner,” interrupted the brown-eyed girl over her shoulder, without looking at him. She was already deep in the confidence of the next customer, who had told her the early history of two of her children, and was now proceeding to the third. Mr. Broadstreet buttoned up his coat collar, and stepped out once more into the storm. A few moments’ walk brought him to a stand where the trees were for sale. And what a spicy, fragrant, delicious, jolly place it was, to be sure! The sidewalk was flanked right and left with rows upon rows of spruce, pine and fir trees, all gayly decked with tufts of snow; every doorway, too, was full of these trees, as if they had huddled in there to get out of the storm. Here and there were great boxes overflowing with evergreen and holly boughs, many of which the dealers had taken out and stuck into all sorts of crannies and corners of their stands, so that the glossy leaves and scarlet berries glistened in the flaring light of the lamps. Wreaths of every size and description—some made of crispy gray moss, dotted with bright amaranths, some of holly—were threaded upon sticks like beads, and were being constantly pulled off and sold to the muffled customers who poured through the narrow passageway in a continuous stream.
“All brightness,” thought Mr. Broadstreet, “and no Shadow this time.”
None? What was that black ugly-looking stain on the fallen snow, extending from his own feet to one of the rude wooden stands where traffic was busiest? Mr. Broadstreet started, and scrutinized it sharply. He soon discovered the outline of Christmas Present. Beyond a doubt it was the Shadow again.
III
It must be confessed that for a moment Mr. Broadstreet felt slightly annoyed. Why should that Thing be constantly starting up and darkening his cheerful mood? It was bad enough that the Shadow should exist, without intruding its melancholy length upon people who were enjoying Christmas Eve. He might have indulged in still further discontent, when he noticed the head of the Shadow-figure droop as in sadness. He remembered the kind Ghost’s grief, and upbraided himself for his hardness of heart.
“Forgive me,” he said, half aloud. “I was wrong. I forgot. I will, please God, brighten this spot and turn away the Shadow!”