The clock struck six. It was Christmas morning! Jimsy awoke with the thought of turkey uppermost in his mind, to find Aunt Judith by his bed, a wonderful look of Christmas, he thought, in her gentle face.
"Dress quickly, Jimsy," she whispered, "and don't make a sound—not a sound! I'll wait outside by the door. It—it's a Christmas secret that nobody but you and I must know."
Jimsy tumbled into his clothes and opened the door.
"W-w-w-w-what is it, Aunt Judith?" he whispered.
But for answer Aunt Judith only hurried him in a flutter to the sewing-room, safe this many a year from the measured tread of first-citizen feet, and closed the door.
"Oh, Aunt Judith!" gulped the boy. "Aunt Judith!"
A Christmas tree winked and rainbowed glory in a window by the eaves, everything beneath its tinselled branches that the heart of boy could wish. The radiance in Jimsy's eyes brought Aunt Judith to her knees beside him, her sweet, tired eyes wet with tears of pleasure.
"You like it, Jimsy?" she whispered. "You're sure you like it, dear?"
Jimsy buried his face on Aunt Judith's shoulder with a strangled sob of excitement and delight.
"Aunt Judith," he blurted, "I—I can't 'mos' tell ye what I think."
Aunt Judith's arms clung tightly to him.
"Cousin Lemuel helped me," she whispered. "The house was dark and Mr. Sawyer in bed. There wasn't even a light in the work-shop. We tiptoed up and down the back-stairs. You mustn't breathe a word of it, Jimsy! Not a word! It's for you and me."
Jimsy sighed.
"Whisht," he said, "whisht Uncle Ab believed in Chris'mus."
Aunt Judith kissed him.
"Bless your heart, Jimsy," she said bravely. "So do I."
But even bewildering hours with gifts and trees must come to an end, and presently Aunt Judith and Jimsy went down hand in hand to attend to the fire and breakfast.... And the opening of the sitting-room door froze Aunt Judith Sawyer to the threshold, her face whitely unbelieving. Something was wrong with the primness of the sitting-room—something in evergreen and tinsel and a hundred candles that showered Christmas from its boughs—something was wrong with Abner Sawyer—up and waiting by the window, his face twisted into a faint and sickly smile of apology.
For now that he was in the very heart of his "proving" he did not know what on earth to do. Dignity?... It was hopelessly out of the question. With a monument to his midnight guilt blazing there in the corner—with Christmas wreaths hung in the windows to confound the Middletons—he must face the music. Feeling very foolish, he cleared his throat and essayed to speak, paralyzed into silence again by the unexpected evolution of a hoarse croak so horribly un-first-citizen that it frightened him.
Jimsy broke the staring silence.
"Uncle Ab," he quivered, "ye never—ye never went an' done all that fur me!"
"I—I don't know," said Abner Sawyer, swallowing very hard. "I—I think I did."
"When," faltered Aunt Judith from the doorway, "did you—do it?"
"It must have been after midnight. I came in very quietly. The ride was long—I went to Matsville. You must have been in bed asleep—"
Jimsy embarked upon a handspring of celebration.
"Two trees!" he shouted, caution quite forgotten in his wild excitement, "two suits of clothes—two everything! Oh, my gosh, Specks ain't in it. I'm the Christmas kid!" and then in a panic he was on his feet again, his face hot and red. "Aunt Judith," he exclaimed, almost crying, "I'm awfully sorry—"
Aunt Judith's tremulous laugh seemed tears and silver.
"Never mind, dear. It's all right now. Abner," she swallowed bravely, "one of—one of Jimsy's Christmas trees is in the sewing-room. I—I'd like you to see it."
