he mother considered the papers, now
with a gleam of anger in her eyes, as she read, and now with a
momentary blur of tear-dimmed vision. Most of the letters she threw at
once on the fire. They writhed a moment like living creatures, and of
a sudden blazed out as if tormented into sudden confession of the
passions of years gone by; then they fell away to black unmemoried
things, curling crumpled in the heat.

The children saw them burn with simple interest in each new
conflagration. Something in the mother's ways quieted them, and they
became intuitively conscious of sadness in the hour and the task. At
last the boy grew uneasy at the long repose of tongue.

"O Alice! see the red sparks going about," he said, looking at the
wandering points of light in the blackening scrolls of shrivelled
paper.

"Nurse says those are people going to church," said his sister,
authoritatively.

Her mother looked up, smiling. "Ah, that is what they used to tell me
when I was little."

"They're fire-flies," said the boy, "like in a vewy dark night." Now
and then his r's troubled him a little, and conscious of his
difficulty, he spoke at times with oddly serious deliberation.

"You really must be quiet," said the mother. "Now, do keep still, or
you will have to go to bed," and so saying she turned anew to the
basket.

Presently the girl exclaimed, "Why do you burn the letters?" She had
some of her mother's persistency, and was not readily controlled. This
time the mother made no reply. A sharp spasm of pain went over her
features. Looking into the fire, as if altogether unconscious of the
quick spies at her side, she said aloud, "Oh! I can no more! Let them
wait. What a fool I was. What a fool!" and abruptly pushed the basket
aside.

The little fellow leaped up and cast his arms about her while his
long, yellow hair fell on her neck and shoulder. "O Mamma!" he cried,
"don't read any more. Let _me_ burn them. I hate them to hurt you."

She smiled on him through tears--rare things for her. "Every one must
bear his own troubles, Hugh. You couldn't help me. You couldn't know,
dear, what to burn."

"But I know," said the girl, decisively. "I know. I had a letter once;
but Hugh never had a letter. I wish Kris Kringle would take them away
this very, very night; and lessons, too, I do. What will he bring us
for Christmas, mamma? I know what. I want"--

"A Kris Kringle to take away troubles would suit me well, Alice; I
could hang up