November had verged into December and the little pile of coins were yet
far from the sum needed. Dear God! how the money did have to go. The
rent, and the groceries and the coal,--though, to be sure, she used a
precious bit of that. All the work and saving and skimping,--maybe, yes,
maybe by Christmas. What a gift!
Christmas Eve night on Royal Street is no place for a weakling, for the
shouts and carousals of the roisterers will strike fear into the brave.
Yet amid the cries and yells, the deafening blow of horns and tin
whistles and the really dangerous fusillade of fireworks, the little
figure hurried along, one hand clutching tight the battered hat that the
rude merry-makers would have torn off, the other grasping under the
thin, black cape a worn little pocketbook.
Into the _Mont de Piete_, breathless, eager. The ticket? Here, worn,
crumpled. The ring? It was not gone? No, thank Heaven! It was really a
joy well worth her toil, she thought, to have it again.
Had Titiche not been shooting crackers on the banquette instead of
peering into the crack, as was his wont, his big, round, black eyes
would have grown saucer-wide to see little Miss Sophie kiss and fondle a
ring, an ugly clumsy band of gold.
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