Chapter II

We leave a blank line on the page and denote thereby that ten
years have passed. It was Christmas Eve, that is, it had been
Christmas Eve when the little children had gone to bed. Now
midnight had passed and it was already Christmas morning. In one
of the greatest and most splendid houses on the avenue two little
children were nestled all snug in their beds in a nursery. In an
adjoining room sound sleep had quieted the nerves of the usually
vigilant and watchful nurse. But the little children were
wakeful. As always, visions of Santa Claus danced in their heads.

They were fearless children by nature and had been trained
without the use of bugaboos to keep them in the paths wherein
they should go. On this night of nights they had left the doors
of their nursery open. The older, a little girl of six, was
startled, but not alarmed, as she lay watchfully waiting, by a
creaking sound as of an opened door in the library below. She
listened with a beating heart under the coverlet; cause of
agitation not fear, but hope. It might be, it must be Santa
Claus, she decided. Brother, aged four, was close at hand in his
own small crib. She got out of her bed softly so as not to
disturb Santa Claus, or—more important at the time—the nurse. She
had an idea that Saint Nicholas might not welcome a nurse, but
she had no fear at all that he would not be glad to see her.

Need for a decision confronted her. Should she reserve the
pleasure she expected to derive from the interview for herself or
should she share it with little brother? There was a certain risk
in arousing brother. He was apt to awaken clamant, vociferous.
Still, she resolved to try it. For one thing, it seemed so
selfish to see Santa Claus alone, and for another the adventure
would be a little less timorous taken together.

Slipping her feet into her bedroom slippers and covering her
nightgown with a little blanket wrap, she tip-toed over to
brother’s bed. Fortunately, he too was sleeping lightly, and for
a like reason. For a wonder she succeeded in arousing him without
any outcry on his part. He was instantly keenly, if quietly,
alive to the situation and its fascinating possibilities.

“You must be very quiet, John,” she whispered. “But I think Santa
Claus is down in the library. We’ll go down and catch him.”

Brother, as became the hardier male, disdained further protection
of his small but valiant person. Clad only in his pajamas and his
slippers, he followed sister out the door and down the stair.
They went hand in hand, greatly excited by the desperate
adventure.

What proportion of the millions who dwelt in the great city were
children of tender years only statisticians can say, but
doubtless there were thousands of little hearts beating with
anticipation as the hearts of those children beat, and perhaps
there may have been others who were softly creeping downstairs to
catch Santa Claus unawares at that very moment.

One man at least was keenly conscious of one little soul who,
with absolutely nothing to warrant the expectation, nothing
reasonable on which to base joyous anticipation, had gone to bed
thinking of Santa Claus and hoping that, amidst equally deserving
hundreds of thousands of obscure children, this little mite in
her cold, cheerless garret might not be overlooked by the
generous dispenser of joy. With the sublime trust of childhood
she had insisted upon hanging up her ragged stocking. Santa Claus
would have to be very careful indeed lest things should drop
through and clatter upon the floor. Her heart had beaten, too,
although she descended no stair in the great house. She, too, lay
wakeful, uneasy, watching, sleeping, drowsing, hoping. We may
have some doubts about the eternal springing of hope in the human
breast save in the case of childhood—thank God it is always
verdant there!