Mr. Kris Kringle | Page 2

with a
momentary blur of tear-dimmed vision. Most of the letters she threw at
once on the fire. They writhed a moment like living creatures, and of a
sudden blazed out as if tormented into sudden confession of the
passions of years gone by; then they fell away to black unmemoried
things, curling crumpled in the heat.
The children saw them burn with simple interest in each new
conflagration. Something in the mother's ways quieted them, and they
became intuitively conscious of sadness in the hour and the task. At last

the boy grew uneasy at the long repose of tongue.
"O Alice! see the red sparks going about," he said, looking at the
wandering points of light in the blackening scrolls of shrivelled paper.
"Nurse says those are people going to church," said his sister,
authoritatively.
Her mother looked up, smiling. "Ah, that is what they used to tell me
when I was little."
"They're fire-flies," said the boy, "like in a vewy dark night." Now and
then his r's troubled him a little, and conscious of his difficulty, he
spoke at times with oddly serious deliberation.
"You really must be quiet," said the mother. "Now, do keep still, or you
will have to go to bed," and so saying she turned anew to the basket.
Presently the girl exclaimed, "Why do you burn the letters?" She had
some of her mother's persistency, and was not readily controlled. This
time the mother made no reply. A sharp spasm of pain went over her
features. Looking into the fire, as if altogether unconscious of the quick
spies at her side, she said aloud, "Oh! I can no more! Let them wait.
What a fool I was. What a fool!" and abruptly pushed the basket aside.
The little fellow leaped up and cast his arms about her while his long,
yellow hair fell on her neck and shoulder. "O Mamma!" he cried, "don't
read any more. Let me burn them. I hate them to hurt you."
She smiled on him through tears--rare things for her. "Every one must
bear his own troubles, Hugh. You couldn't help me. You couldn't know,
dear, what to burn."
"But I know," said the girl, decisively. "I know. I had a letter once; but
Hugh never had a letter. I wish Kris Kringle would take them away this
very, very night; and lessons, too, I do. What will he bring us for
Christmas, mamma? I know what. I want"--

"A Kris Kringle to take away troubles would suit me well, Alice; I
could hang up a big stocking."
"And I know what I want," said the boy. "Nurse says Kris has no
money this Christmas. I don't care." But the great blue eyes filled as he
spoke.
The mother rose. "There will be no presents this year, Hugh.
Only--only more love from me, from one another; and you must be
brave and help me, because you know this is not the worst of it. We are
to go away next week, and must live in the town. You see, dears, it
can't be helped."
"Yes," said Hugh, thoughtfully, "it can't be helped, Alice."
"I don't want to go," said the girl.
"Hush," said Hugh.
"And I do want a doll."
"I told you to be quiet, Alice," returned the mother, a rising note of
anger in her voice. In fact, she was close upon a burst of tears, but the
emotions are all near of kin and linked in mystery of relationship. Pity
and love for the moment became unreasoning wrath. "You are
disobedient," she continued.
"O mamma! we are vewy sorry," said the lad, who had been the less
offending culprit.
"Well, well. No matter. It is bed-time, children. Now to bed, and no
more nonsense. I can't have it, I can't bear it."
The children rose submissively, and, kissing her, were just leaving the
room, when she said: "Oh! but we must not lose our manners. You
forget."
The girl, pausing near the doorway, dropped a courtesy.

"That wasn't very well done, Alice. Ah! that was better."
The little fellow made a bow quite worthy of the days of minuet and
hoop, and then, running back, kissed the tall mother with a certain
passionate tenderness, saying, softly, "Now, don't you cry when we are
gone, dear, dear mamma," and then, in a whisper, "I will pway God not
to let you cwy," and so fled away, leaving her still perilously close to
tears. Very soon, up-stairs, the old nurse, troubled by the children's
disappointment, was assuring them with eager mendacity that Kris
would be certain to make his usual visit, while down-stairs the mother
walked slowly to and fro. She had that miserable gift, an unfailing
memory of anniversaries, and now, despite herself, the long years
rolled