Morning came at last and Mr. Munroe with it. No success so far. He drank
some coffee and was off again. That was quite early. An hour or two
later the breakfast-bell rang. Earl did not respond to it, so his mother
went to the foot of the stairs and called him. There was a stern ring in
her soft voice. All the time she had in mind his heartlessness and
greediness over the presents. When Earl did not answer she went
up-stairs, and found that he was not in his room. Then she looked in the
parlor, and stood staring in bewilderment. Earl was not there, but
neither were the Christmas-tree and his presents--they had vanished
bodily!
Just at that moment Earl Munroe was hurrying down the road, and he was
dragging his big sled, on which were loaded his Christmas-presents and
the Christmas-tree. The top of the tree trailed in the snow, its
branches spread over the sled on either side, and rustled. It was a
heavy load, but Earl tugged manfully in an enthusiasm of remorse and
atonement--a fantastic, extravagant atonement, planned by that same
fertile fancy which had invented that story for poor little Jenny, but
instigated by all the good, repentant impulses in the boy's nature.
On every one of those neat parcels, above his own name, was written in
his big crooked, childish hand, "Jenny Brown, from--" Earl Munroe had
not saved one Christmas-present for himself.
Pulling along, his eyes brilliant, his cheeks glowing, he met Maud
Barker.
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