There was a movement in her garden and on the walk footsteps. The three men stepped into the rectangle of lamplight—Abel, Ames and Simeon, who had left the party a little before the others and, hurrying back with the gifts that they planned, had met Ebenezer at his gate, getting home from Jenny's house. In Abel's arms was something globed, like a little world; in Simeon's, the tall, gray-gowned Saint Nicholas taken from the Exchange window, the lettered sign absent, but the little flag still in his hand; and Ebenezer was carrying the hobbyhorse. If at him the other two had wondered somewhat, they had said nothing, in that fashion of treating the essential which is as peculiar to certain simple, robust souls as to other kinds of great souls.
"Has the boy gone to bed?" Abel asked without preface.
"Yes," Mary answered, "he has. I'm sorry."
"Never mind," Simeon whispered, "you can give him these in the morning."
Mary, her shawl half hiding her face, stooped to take what the three lifted.
"They ain't presents, you know," Abel assured her positively. "They're just—well, just to let him know."
Mary set the strange assortment on the floor of the dining room—the things that were to be nothing in themselves, only just "to let him know."
"Thank you for him," she said gently. "And thank you for me," she added.
Ebenezer fumbled for a moment at his beaver hat, and took it off. Then the other two did so to their firm-fixed caps. And with an impulse that came from no one could tell whom, the three spoke—the first time hesitatingly, the next time together and confidently.
"Merry Christmas. Merry Christmas," they said.