find a recipe for potpourri or wonderful little almond cakes somewhere, behind a secret panel, the way girls did in stories, or paint calendars with sprigs of holly and sell them for Christmas presents. She saw herself cooking—up to the elbows in soapsuds—singing as her hot iron went to and fro, making its shining road, like the girls in Mrs. Whitney's books, who were all so poor, and lived in such an atmosphere of roses and raspberries and fresh white ruffles. "Goody! Goody!" she thought, exalted. "We're going to be poor!"
"And we mustn't expect Santa Claus to bring so much as usual this year—Oh, he'll come, Jodie, of course he'll come, but we mustn't be disappointed if he doesn't bring so many toys as last year."
A quivering Jodie relaxed as Hoagland and Charlotte rolled amused eyes at each other. Hoagland even had to cover his mouth with both his hands, at the mention of Santa Claus, but he and Charlotte said nothing, humoring the young and innocent.
And after all, there were more presents than ever before. Everyone remembered the two little Greens that first Christmas after Joe died.
Kate and Lizzie trimmed the tree, hanging the silver bugles, the rosy bubbles, while the tears went on rolling down Kate's face, and Lizzie was sniffing and saying she had a cold.
"I guess I'll make me a hot lemonade before I go to bed. "You better have one, too, Mis' Green."
