"
Beryl had to admit, deep in her heart, that Robin had managed a
Christmas full of joy that had nothing to do with stores full of lovely
things and crowded with people lucky enough to have money to buy them.
Never having thought much about the Christmas spirit, she had no name
with which to explain Mrs. Budge's awkwardly kind manner--even to her,
or her mother's unusual animation, or why the picture of little Susy,
still rooted to the tree, clasping a great paper doll in her arms, made
her glad all over. But after a little she disappeared, and presently,
from the library, came the strains of her violin, low, pulsing with a
deep emotion, now a laugh, now a sob, climbing higher and higher until
they sang like the far-off, quivery note of a bird, flying into the
heavens.
A deep hush fell over the little group of merrymakers. Harkness coughed
into his hand. Mrs. Budge fussed around the spacious belt of a dress for
a handkerchief and, finding none, surreptitiously lifted a corner of her
apron. Mrs. Lynch caught her throat with a convulsive movement as though
something hurt it. Robin, watching her, slipped her hand into the
mother's and squeezed it.
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