The Ray Cummings MEGAPACK ®: 25 Golden Age Science Fiction and Mystery Tales. Ray Cummings
great world, will he always come.”
“But you must be asleep when he comes, Loto,” one of the men admonished.
“Yes, my father, that I know,” the boy answered gravely. “I will go now.”
“Come back Loto, when you have undressed,” the Chemist called after him, as he left the room. “Remember you must hang your stocking.”
When they were left alone Lylda looked at her companions and smiled.
“His first Christmas,” she said. “How wonderful we are going to make it for him.”
“I can remember so well,” the Big Business Man remarked thoughtfully, “when they first told me there was no Santa Claus. I cried, for I knew Christmas would never be the same to me.”
“Loto is nearly twelve years old,” the Doctor said. “Just imagine—having his first Christmas.”
“We’re going to make it a corker,” said the Banker. “Where’s the tree? We got one.”
“In the wood-shed,” Lylda answered. “He has not seen it; I was so very careful.”
They were silent a moment. Then: “My room is chock full of toys,” the Banker said reflectively. “But this is a rotten town for candy canes—they only had little ones.” And they all laughed.
“I have a present for you, Lylda,” the Chemist said after a moment.
“Oh, but you must not give it until tomorrow; you yourself have told me that.”
The Chemist rose. “I want to give it now,” he said, and left the room. In a moment he returned, carrying a mahogany pedestal under one arm and a square parcel in the other. He set the pedestal upright on the floor in a corner of the room and began opening the package. It was a mahogany case, cubical in shape. He lifted its cover, disclosing a glass-bell set upon a flat, mahogany slab. Fastened to the center of this was a handsome black plush case, in which lay a gold wedding-ring.
Lylda drew in her breath sharply and held it; the three other men stared at the ring in amazement. The Chemist was saying: “And I decided not to destroy it, Lylda, for your sake. There is no air under this glass cover; the ring is lying in a vacuum, so that nothing can come out of it and live. It is quite safe for us to keep it—this way. I thought of this plan, afterwards, and decided to keep the ring—for you.” He set the glass bell on the pedestal.
Lylda stood before it, bending down close over the glass.
“You give me back—my world,” she breathed; then she straightened up, holding out her arms toward the ring. “My birthplace—my people—they are safe.” And then abruptly she sank to her knees and began softly sobbing.
Loto called from upstairs and they heard him coming down. Lylda went back hastily to the fire; the Chemist pushed a large chair in front of the pedestal, hiding it from sight.
The boy, in his night clothes, stood on the hearth beside his mother.
“There is the stocking, mamita. Where shall I hang it?”
“First the prayer, Loto. Can you remember?”
The child knelt on the hearth, with his head in his mother’s lap.
“Now I lay me—” he began softly, halting over the unfamiliar words. Lylda’s fingers stroked his brown curly head as it nestled against her knees; the firelight shone golden in his tousled curls.
The Chemist was watching them with moist eyes. “His first Christmas,” he murmured, and smiled a little tender smile. “His first Christmas.”
The child was finishing.
“And God bless Aura, and Jack, and—”
“And Grandfather Reoh,” his mother prompted softly.
“And Grandfather Reoh—and mamita, and—” The boy ended with a rush—“and me too. Amen. Now where do I hang the stocking, mother?”
In a moment the little stocking dangled from a mantel over the fireplace.
“You are sure he will come?” the child asked anxiously again.
“It is certain, Loto—if you are asleep.”
Loto kissed his mother and shook hands solemnly with the men—a grave, dignified little figure.
“Good night, Loto,” said the Big Business Man.
“Good night, sir. Good night, my father—good night, mamita; I shall be asleep very soon.” And with a last look at the stocking he ran out of the room.
“What a Christmas he will have,” said the Banker, a little huskily.
A girl stood in the doorway that led into the dining-room adjoining—a curious-looking girl in a gingham apron and cap. Lylda looked up.
“Oh, Eena, please will you say to Oteo we want the tree from the wood-shed—in the dining-room.”
The little maid hesitated. Her mistress smiled and added a few words in foreign tongue. The girl disappeared.
“Every window gets a holly wreath,” the Doctor said. “They’re in a box outside in the wood-shed.”
“Look what I’ve got,” said the Big Business Man, and produced from his pocket a little folded object which he opened triumphantly into a long serpent of filigree red paper on a string with little red and green paper bells hanging from it. “Across the doorway,” he added, waving his hand.
A moment after there came a stamping of feet on the porch outside, and then the banging of an outer door. A young man and girl burst into the room, kicking the snow from their feet and laughing. The youth carried two pairs of ice-skates slung over his shoulder; as he entered the room he flung them clattering to the floor.
The girl, even at first glance, was extraordinarily pretty. She was small and very slender of build. She wore stout high-laced tan shoes, a heavy woollen skirt that fell to her shoe-tops and a short, belted coat, with a high collar buttoned tight about her throat. She was covered now with snow. Her face and the locks of hair that strayed from under her knitted cap were soaking wet.
“He threw me down,” she appealed to the others.
“I didn’t—she fell.”
“You did; into the snow you threw me—off the road.” She laughed. “But I am learning to skate.”
“She fell three times,” said her companion accusingly.
“Twice only, it was,” the girl corrected. She pulled off her cap, and a great mass of black hair came tumbling down about her shoulders.
Lylda, from her chair before the fire, smiled mischievously.
“Aura, my sister,” she said in a tone of gentle reproof. “So immodest it is to show all that hair.”
The girl in confusion began gathering it up.
“Don’t you let her tease you, Aura,” said the Big Business Man. “It’s very beautiful hair.”
“Where’s Loto?” asked the Very Young Man, pulling off his hat and coat.
“In bed—see his stocking there.”
A childish treble voice was calling from upstairs. “Good night, Aura—good night, my friend Jack.”
“Good night, old man—see you tomorrow,” the Very Young Man called back in answer.
“You mustn’t make so much noise,” the Doctor said reprovingly. “He’ll never get to sleep.”
“No, you mustn’t,” the Big Business Man agreed. “Tomorrow’s a very very big day for him.”
“Some Christmas,” commented the Very Young Man looking around. “Where’s the holly and stuff?”
“Oh,