Crispin had one. Sally decorated a placecard with a bit of green from her plate and wrote:
She laid it before Meriweather, and in spite of himself he laughed.
"She wears them well."
"She does. But next Christmas I shall be wearing your flowers, Merry."
"Is that a prophecy or a threat?"
"Both."
"There's a present for you on the tree," he digressed.
"Tell me about it." She clapped her hands like a child. "I can't wait. I can't wait."
"I ought to make you wait for your—impertinence." His tone was light, but she knew he meant it.
"I'm sorry," she said softly.
Her eyes, as they came up to his, had tears far back in them. How could he know that the card she had read in Hildegarde's room had stricken all the brightness from her day. For the card had said:
"Wear them, won't you, Hildegarde? They'll be awfully proud to be worn by you."
And now here she was saying, "I'm sorry," and her heart was heavy. And she looked so like a repentant child that Meriweather laid his hand for a second over hers.
"I'll forgive you. And—it's a doll."
"Not really?"
