"The Virgin Mary is God's mother," Hannah continued. "That's her picture over our fireplace,"--pointing to a copy of a crude thirteenth century Madonna and Child in a carved Gothic frame, which Eli and Rose Joseph had bought in Italy while on their wedding trip. Flanked now by candles burning in silver candelabra in honor of Chanuca, it gave the mantel a passing resemblance to a Catholic shrine. "I don't think God's mother is very pretty, do you, Mama? And I think Nellie's little brother is a heap prettier'n God was when He was a baby." Mrs. Joseph showed signs of having reached the limit. "Hannah," she said firmly, "it is time you were in bed." "But, Papa hasn't come home yet." "Papa will be late to-night, dear." "The Chris'mus rush," sighed Hannah. "Mama, you haven't looked down my throat to-day," she added, playing for time. Mrs. Joseph went through the daily ritual. "It looks all right," she pronounced. "It _is_ all right," came the triumphant answer. "It is never going to be sore again. Virginia says----" "Never mind what Virginia says. If your throat ever hurts you the least little bit, you are to come to me instantly and tell me. Do you understand?" "Yes, Mama, but it isn't going to hurt any more," Hannah insisted. "Come on up-stairs to bed." Still Hannah hung back. She had not played her trump card yet, and the time was short. She caught her mother's slim white hand in hers and fingered nervously at the rings. "Mama," she almost whispered, "Virginia says it's Jewish mamas' fault that Santy Claus don't come to see Jewish children. If the mamas would just go to Santy and _tell_ him to come--You will, won't you, Mama? _Please, Mama!_" "Hannah, not another word about Christmas and Santy Claus--not--another--word!" Hannah swallowed something that came in her throat, and bravely winked back her tears. "Can't Mandy put me to bed?" "No, dear; Mandy is busy in the kitchen. Mama will put you to bed and tell you stories." She bent down and kissed the child tenderly. Hannah flung her arms about her mother's neck. She loved the feel of the soft throat and the gently curving bosom against her little cheek, and the fragrance of her mother's hair and silken laces. She didn't know that her mother looked like a portrait by Raphael, but she did know that her mama was the prettiest, sweetest mama in all the world; and yet-- "Mama, I'm so tired of stories about the children of Israel. They never did anything funny. Mandy tells me tales about the old plantashun, when her ma was a slave, and about ole Marse, and ole Mis' going to town and giving Santy Claus money so's he'd bring beads and 'juice' harps and things to the little niggers; and he never forgot one, from the biggest to the littlest darky, Santy didn't." The child's body began to tremble with repressed sobs. "I--I wisht I was a--a little darky! It's--it's awful--sad to be a little Jewish child at Chris'mus time." And then the storm broke.