"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."