McClure’s Magazine/Volume 34/Number 2/The Lighted House

THE LIGHTED HOUSE.
BY MARY STEWART CUTTING
ALTHOUGH hardly anyone knew little Mrs. Sinclair,—she had moved into the place only two months before, and had never been out of the door since,—everybody going down to the village on the afternoon of Christmas eve had noticed her sitting at the second- story window of the big double house fronting directly on the snowy street, the folds of a blue curtain behind her, and her small face, with its fair hair, pressed closely against the pane, looking down at the children who went past in twos and companies, most of them scarlet-coated or scarlet-capped, their heads turning upward as if pulled with a string as they passed underneath her window; they were used to seeing her smiling wistfully at them.
There was a Christmas tree this afternoon at the other end of the town, and the children going to that took hands along the narrow, slippery white pavement, the older leading the younger; their eyes had almost the expression of infantile holiness that children wear coming home on Sunday morning from Sunday-school, when they are very clean and dressed in their best and are still filled with the wonder of being so very good. It was the wonder of the

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