Honey-Sweet Part 14

"Dear, dear! Will Watkins Lewis's child!" repeated Mrs. Marshall. "Where are all your kins-people and friends?"

"I don't know 'bout kinfolks. But I have lots and lots of friends," said Anne, brightening. "All the girls--and the cook--and the 'spress man--and there used to be Miss Drayton and Pat. And there's always Honey-Sweet," continued Anne, giving her doll a hug. "Oh, I must hurry!

It's beginning to strike five--and Miss Farlow said five o'clock pre-cise-ly. Good-by. And thank you."

CHAPTER XVII

That Sat.u.r.day afternoon was the first of many that Anne spent at the brown-stone house next door. The 'Roseland' family became so fond of her that Mr. and Mrs. Marshall talked about adopting her. 'It was too important a matter to decide offhand,' Mr. Marshall said; 'too great a responsibility to undertake lightly. They would wait awhile. Of course the child would like to come.'

Mrs. Marshall was sure that she would be overjoyed. She asked one afternoon, "How would you like to stay with us all the time, my dear?"

Anne was not prepared to say. "It's lovely to visit you and I always want to stay longer," she responded. She considered the question on her way to the 'Home,' and arrived at a positive conclusion.

"I don't believe I'd like it, Honey-Sweet," she said,--"not at all. I like them every one and it's a lovely visiting-place. I'm glad I'm going to spend to-morrow night there. But Dunlop--he's much nicer to be company than home-folks with."

The next day was Christmas Eve. When Anne entered the 'Roseland'

nursery, snow was beginning to fall, fluttering down in big wet flakes.

Dunlop, his stocking in his hand, was prancing about the room. He wished it would be dark and time to hang up his stocking--and he did wish it was to-morrow morning and time to get his presents. He wanted a nail driven in front of the fireplace; he was afraid Santa Claus wouldn't think to look at the end of the mantel-piece. His own stocking was too small. He had told Santa to bring him a football and an express wagon and lots of other things. He was going to borrow a big fat stocking from the big fat cook. Off he ran.

Little Arthur was sitting beside a low table on which lay two picture-books, one less badly torn than the other, and one of his favorite toys, a woolly white dog, now three-legged through some nursery mishap. Arthur regarded them thoughtfully. He had a pencil clenched in his chubby fist and on the table before him was a piece of paper.

"What are you doing, Artie dear?" asked Anne.

He looked up at her with big round blue eyes. He was a quiet, good-tempered little fellow, now perplexed with serious thoughts.

"I'm going to hang up all two my socks," he announced.

"Why, Arthur-boy! that sounds selfish--not like you," exclaimed Anne.

"You don't want more than your share of Santa Claus's pretty things, do you? Don't you want him to save some toys and books and candies for other little boys?"

Arthur followed his own course of thought, without regard to Anne's questions. "One sock is for me," he said. "I hope Santa'll 'member and give me what I asked him."

"What did you ask him to bring you, honey?" inquired Anne.

Arthur looked at her gravely. "I'se forgot. Was so many fings. And one sock is for Santa C'aus. I'm going to fill it all full of fings. A apple. And popcorn b.a.l.l.s--Marfa made 'em. And my dear woolly dog's for Santa. Will he care if it's foot's bwoke?"

"But, Arthur darling," suggested Anne, "I wouldn't give the woolly dog away. You love it best of all your toys."

"Yes, I do," agreed Arthur. "Old Santa'll love him, too. And I'll give him my wed wose. Mamma wored it to her party las' night. Smell it, Anne; ain't it sweet? And see here,"--he opened his chubby fist. "Fahver give me five cents. I'm goin' to give it to Santa C'aus. And tell him to buy him anyfing he wants wif it."

Anne hugged him heartily. "You dear, cute, generous, precious darling!"

she exclaimed.

Arthur drew away with sober dignity. Anne's caresses interfered with his serious occupation. "I was w'iting Santa a letter," he explained. "But I can't w'ite weal good. I'm fwead he can't wead it. Wouldn't you w'ite my letter, Anne?" he asked, gazing doubtfully at his scribbling.

"That I will. I'll write just what you tell me," said Anne. "Give me the pencil. And you may hold Honey-Sweet while I'm writing."

This was the letter:--

"Dear Santa Claus,--I thank you for the presents you gave me last Christmas. I thank you for the presents you are going to give me this Christmas. Santa Claus, the things in this sock are for you. I give you a red rose. And a woolly dog. He can stand up if you prop him with his tail. And five cents to buy you anything you want. I asked Martha to put out the fire so you won't get burnt coming down the chimney.

Santa Claus, I wish you and Mrs. Santa Claus a merry Christmas. And good-by.

"Your loving friend,

"Arthur Marshall."

Arthur breathed a sigh of relief when the letter was sealed and the sock containing it and the chosen gifts was hung by the mantel-piece. He lay down on a goatskin rug and looked into the flickering fire, prattling about what Santa Claus would say when he found the gifts. Presently he dropped asleep.

Twilight fell. From the gray skies the snow came down steadily. The small, hard flakes tinkled against the window-panes. A northeast wind shook the elm-tree branches, rattled the windows, and moaned around the house. Anne sat staring out into the gathering night. How bleak it was!

how lonely-looking! She s.h.i.+vered and hugged Honey-Sweet close.

"I'm terrible late," said Martha, bustling in and hurrying to draw the curtains and light the gas. "We had to finish putting up the greens. And Master Dunlop did bother so. Nothing would do but he must 'help.'

'Help,' I say! He's one of them chillen that no matter where you turn he's in the way. You shall have tea now, Miss Anne. I know you're starving. And my blessed baby's fast asleep on the floor! Why, Miss Anne! You been crying! What's the matter, dear? Did that Dunlop--"

"n.o.body. Nothing," said Anne, turning her reddened eyes from the light.

"Perhaps my eyes are sore. Maybe the snow hurts them."

"Oh, ho! You just ought 'a' been with me," said Dunlop, strutting in. "I hanged a wreath in the parlor window. I did it all to myself. Martha she just held it straight and mother tied the string. Martha said I bothered. Martha don't know. Mother says I'm her little man.--Come along, you old Santa Claus! Hurry! Or I'll come up that chimney and take all your toys and your reindeers, too," he shouted up the chimney.

"Don't, 'Lop," remonstrated Arthur who was sleepily rubbing his eyes and opening his mouth, bird-like, for spoonfuls of bread and milk. "Don't talk that way. It's ugly. And Santa C'aus'll get mad and not come. Or he'll bring you switches."

"Mother won't let him," bl.u.s.tered Dunlop. "Mother says she told him to bring me a heap of things--a gun and a 'spress wagon and a engine that runs on a track and lots more things.--Say, Anne, is there really truly a sure-'nough Santa Claus? George Bryant says there isn't not. Tell me, Anne. Does Santa Claus really come down the chimney?"

"You stay awake and see," advised Anne.

"I'm going to. I'm not going to shut--my--eyes--all--night--long," he said emphatically.

"Marfa, don't put on any more coal," begged Arthur. "I so fwead Santa C'aus'll get burnted."

The Christmas saint accepted Arthur's offering in the loving spirit in which it was made and there was a letter of thanks in the sock around which were heaped more pretty things than he had remembered he wanted.

Dunlop examined his many gifts with shrieks of delight. His one regret was that he didn't see Santa Claus--if there was a Santa Claus. He knew he didn't go to sleep last night--but he didn't remember anything till Martha was kindling the fire this morning.

By Anne's breakfast plate were several dainty packages,--a copy of _Little Lord Fauntleroy_, a box of dominoes, an embroidered handkerchief, a box of chocolate creams. And Martha gave Honey-Sweet pink-flowered muslin for a new dress.

Breakfast pa.s.sed in wild confusion. Martha was imploring Dunlop not to eat any more candy or raisins or oranges or figs or nuts. "You'll be sick," she said. "And goodness knows, Master Dunlop, you're hard enough to live with best of times when you're well. Do--don't blow your horn, Master Dunlop--or beat your drum--or toot your engine--your poor mamma has such a headache."

Mrs. Marshall protested, however, that the dear child must be allowed to enjoy his Christmas. "He is so high-strung," she said, "not like ordinary children. He can't be controlled like them. I can't bear to cross him and break his spirit."

CHAPTER XVIII