She crossed into her own room, took up the little box, and went down-stairs again and out into the kitchen. How poor and mean her gifts looked, after all, and how lonely in the toes of the long, thin stockings! She could have cried, as she stood there looking at them; but what was the use of crying? Tears wouldn't bring Willie the air-rifle for which he sighed, nor Ernest the fine new sled and knife that he had so innocently mentioned in his prayers. No, crying wouldn't help the matter any; so she smiled instead, as she went back to the sitting-room; but it was a wan, lifeless smile, after all. For a few moments she stood at the window, looking out into the night and listening to the sleepy murmurs from the room above. It would be good sleighing for Santa Claus, she thought, and then smiled at the childishness of the idea. The storm had died away at sunset, and the soft, light snow lay white on the ground, and piled high on the evergreen hedge at the side of the house. In the cold, still air, the stars glittered like little, pricking points of steel, throwing a faint light over the town below; while, far down in the quiet western sky, lay the tiny silver thread of the baby moon, as if anxious to linger above the horizon for a peep into the happy Christmas world, when the midnight bells should ring in the glad news, centuries old, yet ever coming to us with all the fresh joy of that first eastern Christmas dawn. Jean's eyes wandered from the snow below to the sky above, then dropped again to the distant lights that were shining out from the upper rooms of the Hapgood house. Even the attic was ablaze, for Mrs. Hapgood still kept to the old-fashioned custom of illuminating the house on Christmas eve. How Jean wished she could peep in to see what they were all doing! She had missed her friends and their frolics during these past weeks, missed them more than any one knew but her pillow, to which alone she confided her troubles. Then she turned away from the window and threw herself down on the scratchy old haircloth sofa, with her arms folded under her head, to stare at the ceiling and think it all over. She had kept her temper that day, at least; for so much she could be thankful. But now she would have given worlds to run away out of the house and down the street, to spend the evening with Polly or Molly, or even Florence. Mrs. Dwight was busy with her husband, so Jean was quite alone and could be as forlorn as she pleased. Suddenly she sprang up and listened intently. There was the rhythmic beat of footsteps on the sidewalk which Willie had cleared, and a chorus of blithe young voices rang out on the quiet air. "'Hark! Hark! Upon the frosty air of night A joyful anthem swells! A song of gladness and delight, The bells ring out with all their might, And echo o'er the fields, with snow all bright, The merry Christmas bells!'"