And now the little tree was full, and stood bravely in
its place at the far end of the long room, while the white cross
looked down on the toys of the drowned child and the ribbon of the
slave, and seemed to sanctify them for their new use.
Great was the surprise of Silver the next morning, and many the
questions she asked. Out in the world, they told her, it was so; trees
like that were decked for children.
'Am I a child?' said Silver, thoughtfully; 'what do you think, papa?'
'What do you think?' said Waring, turning the question.
'I hardly know; sometimes I think I am, and sometimes not; but it is
of no consequence what I am as long as I have you,--you and papa. Tell
me more about the little tree, Jarvis. What does it mean? What is
that white shining toy on the top? Is there a story about it?'
'Yes, there is a story; but--but it is not I who should tell it to
you,' replied the young man, after a moment's hesitation.
'Why not! Whom have I in all the world to tell me, save you?' said
fondly the sweet child-voice.
They did not take away the little Christmas-tree, but left it on its
pedestal at the far end of the long room through the winter; and as
the cross melted slowly, a new one took its place, and shone aloft in
the firelight.
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