"Take him
away, Patricia!"
From across the hall came the shrill blast of a trumpet. Custard,
his forefeet firmly planted on Miss Kirby's chest, his head cocked
enquiringly, promptly barked a defiant response.
The next moment the spare-room seemed full of children, all, like
Custard, in search of Patricia, and making, at sight of her, as swift an
onslaught in her direction as the extreme length of their nightgowns
would permit.
So, after all, Christmas morning began merrily for them, at least.
The doctor, coming home later from an early visit to the hotel, stopped
outside Patricia's open door. "Merry Christmas, Pat! Got your hands
full?"
Patricia was kneeling on the floor, buttoning Tommy's shoes. "Merry
Christmas, Daddy," she answered, gaily; "I certainly have."
Norma came slowly up to the doctor; she remembered him from last night;
for in all the hurry and confusion of the moment he had found time for a
few comforting words to the frightened, bewildered children. "Have--have
you made Mama better?" she asked, wistfully.
The doctor sat down, taking her on his knee. "What is your mother's
name, dear?"
"Mrs. Howard."
The doctor brushed the child's soft curls; and Patricia, seeing the
gravity of his eyes, caught her breath.
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