was very still. She jumped up, cold with a sudden unreasoning terror. What had happened? She staggered, stupid with sleep, down the hall to the front room. Every one had gone home save Eddie and Pat Macy. Mr. Cudahy was there now, huge and pleasant-faced, with a wallet full of Christmas greetings from his pet motorists. Mrs. Cudahy was telling about the house they use to live in, and Sue in a low voice was trying to wheedle a ten-dollar bill out of her father.
They all looked up as Dot appeared in the doorway.
"There she is," cried Mrs. Cudahy. "I wouldn't let Eddie wake you up, dear."
Dot smiled with sleepy embarrassment. Funny how people treat you after you've been asleep for a while. A sort of combination of indulgence and harmless contempt.
"It's after two o'clock," said Eddie.
"It's Christmas," said Pat.
Then everybody said Merry Christmas to everybody else, and Sue kissed everybody but Eddie.
"I've been trying to convince your husband that you ought to stay all night," said Mr. Cudahy. "We have an extra bed, and a pair of my pajamas would fit the pair of you."
"No," said Eddie. "We can't stay. Thanks."
He got up and walked over to Dot. "Get your things, Kid, we have to go."
"You're very foolish," said Mrs. Cudahy. "We have that bed—"
Dot walked to the window. It didn't look at all like the Christmas of holiday cards. There was no fleecy white snow sparkling like blue-white diamonds. There was no jolly silver moon beaming on the world. The windows of the surrounding houses were dark, hollow squares. No golden shafts of light came from them, warming the cheerless morning. The streets were deserted. A cold wind
