"No. What would be the use if you hung 'em up and didn't find anything in 'em in the morning?"

"It'd be awful, but I believe in Him," said the littlest girl. "I don't think G.o.d has forgot us, really. I'm going to try."

"I tell you 'tain't no use."

"Oh, yes, it is."

"I'm sure it ain't. But have it your own way," said the woman. "If someone would fill your stockings with milk and bread and--"

"I want a turkey," said the oldest girl.

"And cranberry sauce," added the boy.

"I want a doll-baby in mine," said the littlest girl.

The mother hid her face and groaned aloud.

"You ain't sick, are you, Mommy?"

"I guess so. Come, you'd better say your prayers and go to bed. We don't have to keep the fire going so hard when you're all covered up."

It did not take long for the three little youngsters to divest themselves of the rags of clothing they wore. They slept in what pa.s.sed for their underclothes, so there was no donning of white gowns for the night.

"Here are our stockings, Mommy," said the oldest, handing three ragged, almost footless, black stockings to the woman.

"It's no use, I tell you. I can't do it."

"It won't do any harm, Mommy," urged the girl.

"Do you believe in it, too?" asked the mother, and the girl shook her head. "You won't be disappointed in the morning if there's nothing in 'em?"

"No, I suppose it will be because Santa Claus was too busy."

With nervous fingers the woman hung the three stockings near the window.

She was hungry, she was cold, she was broken, she was a mother. She could scarcely keep from crying.

"Maybe you'll be glad you did it," said the littlest girl drowsily.

"Ain't you comin' to bed, too, Mommy?" asked the oldest, beneath the covers over the mattress on the floor.

"In a little while."

"And you won't forget to say your prayers?"

"I ain't said 'em for months, ever since your father was killed, and we got so poor."

"But you'll say 'em to-night 'cause it's Christmas eve?"

"Yes, to-night," said the mother; "now you go to sleep."

"Are you waitin' for him to come, Mommy?" asked the littlest girl, who was very sleepy.

"Yes," said the mother.

Presently, as she sat in the dark, having turned out the light, the deep breathing of the children told her they were asleep. She rose quietly, stepped to the window, and stood looking at the three shapeless, tattered stockings. She was high up in the tenement and the moonlight came softly over the house roofs of the city into the bare, cold, cheerless room. She stared at the stockings and tears streamed down her wasted cheeks. She had hung them low at the suggestion of the littlest girl so the children could easily get at them in the morning.

[Ill.u.s.tration: She pressed them against her face.]

After a time she fell down on her knees. She pressed them against her face. She did not say anything. She could scarcely think anything. She just knelt there until something gently drew her head around. She dropped the stockings. She put her right hand on the window-ledge to steady herself and looked backward.

No sound save the breathing of the children and her own stifled sobs had broken the silence; the door was shut, but a man was there, a man of strange vesture seen dimly in the moon's radiance, yet there was a kind of light about his face. She could see his features. They were those of a man in middle years. They were lined with care. He had seen life on its seamy side. The woman felt that he had known poverty and loneliness.

She stared up at him.

"I didn't believe," she whispered; "it cannot be. I thought we were forgotten."

The man slowly raised his hand. The moonlight struck fair upon it. She saw that it was calloused, the hand of a man who toiled. It was extended over her head. There was no bodily touch, but her head bent low down until she rested it upon her hands upon the floor. When she looked up, the room was empty. There was no sound save the breathing of the children and the throb of her own heart which beat wildly in the fearful hollow of her ear.

She heard a sound of strange footsteps outside the door. There was a crackle as of paper, the soft sound of things laid upon the floor, a gentle rapping on the panels, a light laugh, a rustle of draperies, footsteps moving away. As in a dream she got to her feet, she knew not how. She opened the door.

The hall was dimly illuminated. Her feet struck a little heap of joy-bringing parcels. She leaned back against the door-jamb, her hand to her heart, trembling. What could it mean?

A tiny voice broke the silence. It was the littlest girl turning over in her sleep, murmuring incoherently and then clearly:

"If you only believe, that's enough; if you only believe."

IV

The Workman

"IS NOT THIS THE CARPENTER?"

IV

The Workman

In the mean squalid room back of the saloon half a score of men were a.s.sembled. They were all young in years, in other things not youthful.

Some of them lounged against the wall. Some sat at tables. All were drinking. The air was foul with smoke and reeked with the odor of vile liquor.

"We've got two jobs on hand to-night," said the leader of the gang.

"There's a crib to be cracked an' a guy to be croaked. Red, you an'

Gypsie an' the Gunney will crack the crib. It's dead easy. Only an old man an' his wife. The servants are out except one an' he's fixed. I'll give you the layout presently. The other job's harder. Kid, I'll put you in charge, an' as it's got to be done early to-night I'll give you the orders now. He'll be at The Montmorency at ten o'clock. Someone will call him out to the street."