<h2><SPAN name="III" id="III" />III</h2>
<h2>The Friend</h2>
<h3>"INASMUCH AS YE HAVE DONE IT UNTO ONE OF THE LEAST OF THESE, MY BRETHREN"</h3>
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<p>"Is the story of the Christ Child true, Mommy?" quivered one little,
thin voice.</p>
<p>"Yes, they told us it was over at the mission Sunday-school," said the
littlest child.</p>
<p>"I don't believe it," answered the mother. "God ain't never done much
for me."</p>
<p>"It's Christmas eve, ain't it?" asked the boy, climbing up on the thin
knees of the threadbare woman and nestling his thin face against a
thinner breast which the rags scarcely covered decently.</p>
<p>"Yes, it's Christmas eve."</p>
<p>"And that's the day He came, ain't it?" urged the oldest girl.</p>
<p>"They say so."</p>
<p>"Don't you believe it, Mommy?"</p>
<p>"I used to believe it when I was a girl. I believed it before your
father died, but now—"</p>
<p>"Don't you believe it now?" repeated the first child.</p>
<p>"How can I believe it? You're old enough to understand. That's the last
scuttle of coal we got. We ate the last bit of bread for supper
to-night."</p>
<p>"They say," put in the little boy, "that if you hang up your stockings,
Santa Claus'll fill 'em, 'cause of the Christ Child."</p>
<p>"Don't you believe it, Sonny," said the mother desperately.</p>
<p>"I'm going to hang up mine and see," said the littlest girl.</p>
<p>"He's got too many other children to look after," said the woman, "to
care for the likes of us, I'm afraid, and—"</p>
<p>"But my Sunday-school teacher said He came to poor people special. He
was awful poor Himself. Why, He was born in a stable. That's awful poor,
ain't it?" asked the boy.</p>
<p>"When I was a girl," answered the mother, "I lived on a farm and we had
a stable there that was a palace to this hole we live in now. No, you'd
better not hang up your stockings, none of you."</p>
<p>"And you don't believe in Him, Mommy?"</p>
<p>"No. What would be the use if you hung 'em up and didn't find anything
in 'em in the morning?"</p>
<p>"It'd be awful, but I believe in Him," said the littlest girl. "I don't
think God has forgot us, really. I'm going to try."</p>
<p>"I tell you 'tain't no use."</p>
<p>"Oh, yes, it is."</p>
<p>"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—"</p>
<p>"I want a turkey," said the oldest girl.</p>
<p>"And cranberry sauce," added the boy.</p>
<p>"I want a doll-baby in mine," said the littlest girl.</p>
<p>The mother hid her face and groaned aloud.</p>
<p>"You ain't sick, are you, Mommy?"</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>It did not take long for the three little youngsters to divest
themselves of the rags of clothing they wore. They slept in what passed
for their underclothes, so there was no donning of white gowns for the
night.</p>
<p>"Here are our stockings, Mommy," said the oldest, handing three ragged,
almost footless, black stockings to the woman.</p>
<p>"It's no use, I tell you. I can't do it."</p>
<p>"It won't do any harm, Mommy," urged the girl.</p>
<p>"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?"</p>
<p>"No, I suppose it will be because Santa Claus was too busy."</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"Maybe you'll be glad you did it," said the littlest girl drowsily.</p>
<p>"Ain't you comin' to bed, too, Mommy?" asked the oldest, beneath the
covers over the mattress on the floor.</p>
<p>"In a little while."</p>
<p>"And you won't forget to say your prayers?"</p>
<p>"I ain't said 'em for months, ever since your father was killed, and we
got so poor."</p>
<p>"But you'll say 'em to-night 'cause it's Christmas eve?"</p>
<p>"Yes, to-night," said the mother; "now you go to sleep."</p>
<p>"Are you waitin' for him to come, Mommy?" asked the littlest girl, who
was very sleepy.</p>
<p>"Yes," said the mother.</p>
<p>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.</p>
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<SPAN name='fig2' id='fig2'></SPAN>
<ANTIMG src="images/fig2.jpg" alt="She pressed them against her face." title="She pressed them against her face." />
<br/>
<p class="center" style="font-weight: bold;">She pressed them against her face.</p>
</div>
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<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"I didn't believe," she whispered; "it cannot be. I thought we were
forgotten."</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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?</p>
<p>A tiny voice broke the silence. It was the littlest girl turning over in
her sleep, murmuring incoherently and then clearly:</p>
<p>"If you only believe, that's enough; if you only believe."</p>
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