And there are deeper
depths. There are such words as: "What possessed you to buy me that
old thing? Well, I won't have it! Now!" The stove-door is slammed
open and the gift crammed in upon the coals, and two people sit
there with lips puffed out, chests heaving and hearts burning with
hate.
It is the truth, but cover it up. Cover it up. Turn away the head.
On this Holy Night of Illusion let us forget the truth for once.
There are three hundred and sixty-four other nights in which to
consider the eternal verities. On this one, let us be as little
children. "Let us now go even to Bethlehem and see this thing
which is come to pass."
The mystic hour draws nigh. The lights go out, one by one. The
watchman at the flax mills rings the bell, and they that are waking
count the strokes that tremble in the frosty air. Eleven o'clock.
Father and mother sit silent by the fire. The tree in the corner
of the room flashes its tinselry in the dying light. A cinder
tinkles on the hearth. Their thoughts are one. "He would be nine
years old, if he had lived," murmurs the mother. Their hands grope
for each other, meet and clasp. Something aches in their throats.
The red coals swell and blur into a formless mass.
The mystic hour is come. The town sleeps. The moon rides high in
the clear heavens.
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