TERRY O’CONNOR always declared he was born under a happy star, and he also maintained that at the time of his coming into the world it had danced for very joy. This statement, which no matter how much others might doubt but could not dispute, he had direct from his mother’s mother, who was present on that most auspicious occasion, and had observed the unusual conduct of the stellar body from the window. And, moreover, as if to establish quite conclusively the connection between the shining merriment in the skies and the advent of the little child on earth, the first thing the baby did was to smile. Old Mrs. Mulcahey knew what she was talking of. She had seen many new-born children in her time, and all of them, with the exception of her small and only grandchild, had worn such doleful countenances that a less hopeful person than herself would have been cast into despair. Whether that dazzling, dancing star had blinded her eyes, or had given them a truer vision, who shall say? She had seen—what she had seen! A little joyful slip of humanity come valiantly into this world of trouble, equipped from the outset with the sign-royal of a light heart.

It was the humblest of cradles; but to it, as to all cradles—so runs the old belief—had trooped, unseen, the good fairies with their gifts, and hither also had come the wicked fairy, who is seldom absent at such times, and whose malignant generosity mars all the gracious giving, making possession only too often of doubtful value. Here, as elsewhere, she wreaked her evil will so that the little child grew to be a man known through the countryside as a good-for-naught. That was the extent of her work, however; she was powerless to prevent another testimony. He was also known as a kindly, happy-go-lucky fellow, his own worst enemy, but the friend of all the world. Such was the record of five-and-sixty years, and such it would be to the end.

Terry dragged his squirrel cap closely down about his ears, and pulled the collar of his fur coat up to meet it, shutting out the shouts that rose from the group of idlers gathered around the roaring fire in Wistar’s tavern. Not even Ulysses, on that memorable voyage of his past the sirens, ever strove so vigorously to dull his hearing as did this little commonplace man, who was generally in thrall to his own pleasures. In spite of the laughter which reached him in faint bursts, he strode resolutely to the door and let himself out into the still, white world. For a moment his will, nerved as it seldom was, faltered; back of him, through the open door, he could see the gleaming eye of the fire winking and blinking in friendly wise; the grinning human faces turned his way, jovial as they were, were less alluring, though he knew what comfort lay in their mirth, and what additional comfort would be passed from lip to lip as the hours went by. He was not unfamiliar with such scenes, but the knowledge that the morrow would be Christmas and his rude sleigh contained what would go to the needs, and also to the meagre pleasuring of the shantymen at Thornby’s logging-camp, as well as another and still more potent thought, lent an unusual firmness to his step. He was not sure of himself even then, however, though he cleared the distance with a bound which landed him in the centre of his waiting sleigh, and shook out the reins with a wild halloo that startled the placid old horses and made them whirl forward on the frozen road with the friskiness of youth. The noise of the hurried departure brought the men within the tavern running to the open door, to stand there bare-headed, gaping at the diminishing speck which they knew—and did not know. A man of determination, surely, and hitherto their acquaintance had been with one who never could say “no,” or a quarter of a “no,” on any occasion—the real Terry O’Connor.

Meanwhile, as the sorry-looking nags sobered down to their everyday gait, the man back of them knew which was the real self. His own conduct, despite the fact that he held its key, had surprised him even more than it had his companions; and as his thoughts turned longingly to the spot he had just quitted, he let his grasp slacken on the reins. It was better that the horses should take their own way for a while; he could not quite trust himself. Presently, however, when no backward glance revealed the tavern, and all around the country lay wrapped in the white silence of winter, he gathered the lines more firmly between his fingers and called a jovial word of encouragement. His voice rang out loud and far-reaching,—the only sound to break the stillness save the monotonous sing-song of the sleigh bells that struck a vibrant note on the clear air, and the sharp crunching of the hardened snow under the passing hoofs. Another man in Terry’s place, doing his duty against his inclination, would have performed the task stolidly if there were no one by to applaud his action and recognize what a fine fellow he was. With Terry it was different. Once starting out to do a thing he carried his own lightness of heart into the matter, which was probably the result of being born under a happy star.

There were other reasons in this instance, besides the performance of his duty, to make Terry happy. He had never heard that duty done is the soul’s fireside; indeed, had he been consulted on the subject he would have frankly cast his vote for Wistar’s fireside with the hot toddy going around at blessed intervals rather than for any warmth that might come from his soul because of his own well-doing. He knew little of his soul, and cared less; that was something, according to him, to be reserved for the time when illness, or old age, should overtake him. At present, with his lusty health and his gay heart that was bubbling over with youth despite his years, he disregarded the acquaintance entirely. He had turned his face resolutely toward the north and to the north he would go, though first the provisions would be duly left at the camp; but he had no intention of remaining there himself. A glass of grog—another—they could scarcely offer him less than two!—and he would be away again. Like a beacon, out of the distance, beckoning to him was the jollity up at Merle. It was there he meant to keep the Christmas Eve vigil and, moreover, win the bet Narcisse VÉlin had made. For Narcisse, smarting under what he termed “a slight to hees honor-r,” had declared that Terry would never be able to leave Wistar’s tavern and the jolly crowd assembled there, and the shantymen would be obliged to do without their Christmas cheer because they had chosen so unworthy a bearer instead of a more capable man—he would mention no names!—and then with an evil laugh he had made a heavy wager that his words would come true.

Terry shivered momentarily under his furs, though he was so well wrapped up that the cold was powerless to reach him. How nearly had Narcisse been right, how nearly had he—Terry O’Connor—been the loser. The grog was so good at Wistar’s, and Baptiste, the most famous story-teller of them all, had just come in with a new and wonderful adventure at his tongue’s end, and the glow of the fire was like a gentle hand soothing one into forgetfulness. Then suddenly he had remembered the packed sleigh without with Danny and Whitefoot waiting patiently, though mournfully shaking their bells from time to time to remind him of themselves, of his duty, and, more than all, of Narcisse. The latter thought was the real spur to goad him out of the ease into which he had fallen. So he had left the tavern, and the surprise his action had caused filled him with great glee.

“They’ll niver be t’rough talkin’ av it,” he chuckled aloud, “niver! They’ll say whin they tell their shtories ’twas the year, ye mind, whin Terry, the little jool av a man, wudn’t stay along wid us though we besached most beguilin’, an’ the grog was that edifyin’ ’twas its own monymint. He wint out into the piercin’ cold did that brave little felly”—Terry’s chest swelled with pardonable pride—“because he’d passed his say-so. He’s a square sowl is the lad, though there do be some avil-minded folks as give out that he an’ his promises don’t walk on the same side av the way—now the howly saints fergive thim!” He flapped the reins on the horses’ backs.

“Hi, there, me byes!” he shouted. “’Tis a fine supper ye’ll be havin’, an’ Narcisse VÉlin will be afther payin’ the score. Kape a-goin’, me beauties. The moon will be up whin we go into Merle, an’ ye’ll be dhroppin’ wid fatague; but aisy! now—aisy!—there won’t be anny work to-morry, childer—oh, jist ye wait an’ see! They’ll be afther thinkin’ we ain’t comin’, an’ Narcisse will say in his Frenchy way: ’Bieng! didn’t I tol’ ye so? The bet is mine, an’ little Terry’ll have to pay up; ye can’t put no daypindince in a man av his build iver—’ An’ whilst the avil wurrds are dhroppin’ from his mouth I’ll walk in on thim all as inconsequenshul-like as if I was goin’ to a fair. That’s the toime the laugh will be wid me, an’ Narcisse will want to slink aff to some remoted place. Oh, there does be no sinse at all to make wagers onlesst ye be sure av winnin’—thin ye can make thim big—”

The thought so pleased him that he laughed boisterously, and flicked the horses with the whip, much as a man would nudge his neighbor with a friendly elbow at some witticism; then, his merriment abating a trifle, he began to sing.

Suddenly he broke off in his song, and his fingers closed tightly over the slack reins; the horses felt the authoritative touch and came to an instant standstill. Before them lay the road which here led across the open country, though farther on it wound through the woods and over the low hills. Back of them, three good miles by now, was the little settlement with Wistar’s tavern (which had given the place its name) as a nucleus, while to the left stretched the plain empty of all sign of life; and to the right there was the same level whiteness, broken only by a solitary house which fronted the road at some distance away and seemed like a belated straggler, held captive by the relentless bonds of winter, as it peered longingly in the direction of the small town from whose companionship it was forever set apart. There was an air of forlornness about it, surrounded as it was by all that glitter of ice and glint of frost, though the chimney smoke curling slowly up through the sharp air told of a certain homely cheer within. It was off the beaten track, however, and despite the fact that Terry had halted he made no attempt to give evidence of his presence by so much as a shout. Out of the earth, almost beside him, there had unexpectedly risen a small figure, and he now found himself staring into a child’s eager face.

“Are you Santa Claus?” she demanded with bated breath.

He looked back at her, taking in, even in his dull fashion, the delight that widened her eyes and shrilled her voice. Suppose he told the truth—what then? How the disappointment would cloud the upturned radiant face at the commonplace statement that he was only Terry O’Connor. He hesitated an inappreciable moment; then, because he had been born under a dancing star and loved a jest, he answered her question.

The child’s laugh rang out on the air in happy triumph, waking the echoes. The horses stirred a little and their dull old bells gave forth a low sound, but it wasn’t music compared to that which filled Terry’s ears. He took up the reins reluctantly. She pressed nearer, putting out a small, resolute hand as if she were one of those old-time, fierce-browed highwaymen and meant to stop his further progress.

“Ah, please don’t,” she protested, in a tone no knight of the road would ever have employed, “please—” Then with a little rush, as if the words were eager to escape: “ I was so sure it was truly you, so sure. I saw you when you were way off—just a teeny, weeny speck—and first I thought maybe it was Pierre, or p’r’aps the doctor, or Mr. Higgins, and I came down here ’cause they always say ‘How are you?’ as they pass—they’re such noticing big men! I couldn’t see very clear, you know, with the sun shining one way and the snow sending back baby sparkles the other; but everything seemed so happy, and when I heard you singing, I knew why—even your bells sounded glad—glad! I just could hardly wait. I’ve thought so much about you always—I knew you’d come some day. Where—where are you going now, sir?”

“Home,” answered Terry, honestly enough.

She cast a quick glance at the north along the road he must travel, and which, to her fancy, led henceforth to an enchanted world; then her eyes sought his face again.

“Oh!” she cried breathlessly, “must you go quite—quite yet?”

At the possibility of his departure, the joy that had been written all over her confident little person seemed suddenly to take wing, leaving her dejected and forlorn. The pleasure had been so brief,—a mere flash of brightness that was over almost as soon as it had come.

Terry hesitated; every moment he lingered imperilled the fulfilment of his wager, for his horses were old, and their best was apt to be very slow indeed. He could not afford to loiter. “Before twelve av the clock, Christmas Eve,” Narcisse had taunted him. But the little child! It seemed almost a sin to cheat her of this happiness. He must go, yet everything about her—drooping lips and saddened eyes—bade him stay. Then, filled with a desire to please her and, at the same time, not interfere with his own plans, he bent down.

“Come along wid me,” he suggested jocosely.

He had not been prepared for the effect his words would have on her; the joy in her face was keen as a dagger’s point, and seeing it he would not temporize.

“Come wid me,” he urged.

She hesitated in her turn, and cast a backward glance at the silent house whose tin roof flashed almost like an admonishing eye in the sun. Duty was a word of even less proportions in her vocabulary than in Terry’s, though she knew its existence; knew, too, young as she was, the wide gulf that lies between right and wrong doing. Yet here was no question of wrong, certainly. The possibility of the passing of such an Important Personage had never occurred to her elders, and they, who loved to see her happy, would never refuse to let her go with him; it wasn’t necessary to ask—she couldn’t wait. The house was so lonely! Her uncle was away at his work, and her mother sat sad and quiet, sewing the livelong day; there were no children’s voices in the empty rooms, no rollicking, romping feet in the hall or on the stairs. Just silence, save for the little sounds she herself made as she played with her dolls, or, tired of them, watched the big, desolate world from the window. That was the picture the house held for her. This,—she looked again at the little red-cheeked, blue-eyed man smiling at her from under his big fur cap, his white beard framing his jovial face—why, he had just stepped from her story book; hundreds of times he had met her glance in this same friendly fashion from the printed page; just so had he looked at her in those long daydreams, gleamed at her so in the twilight from the leaping fire, haunted her slumbers at night. Even the sound of his voice was familiar, though she had never thought to hear him say: “Come with me, come with me.”

The road, stretching away to the north, gleamed like silver under the dazzling sky, twinkling and beckoning to her as with a thousand hands, and innumerable voices, too fine to be heard by ordinary ears, echoed the invitation. The voices of the sleeping plains waking at the thought of the happiness in store for her, the voices of the snow-covered trees where the little leaves danced in the summer time, and all the spirits of the birds that had once darted in and out among them and had nested there sang now in a mighty chorus: “Come, come, come.”

Oh, that happy, happy road. Never a child of all the multitude of children on earth who had loved him, dreamed about him, and longed to see him had been so fortunate as she. It was impossible to hesitate a moment longer, especially when the pursed up lips might so quickly slip from the magic word into a chirrup to the horses, and in consequence sleigh and occupant would vanish into thin air.

“Do you really mean it?” she asked tremulously. “Do you really mean it?” For though she was deafened by the noisy voices, his had been the first to speak. “Will you take me, truly?”

For answer he threw back the robes, and as she sprang to his side he gave a great laugh and drew her closer to him; then he dragged an extra rug from the bottom of the sleigh and folded it about her.

“Santa Claus’ swateheart mustn’t ketch the p-noo-moany,” he cried. “Divil a bit av it! What do I percaive—is it missin’ a mitten ye are? Sure that’s disthressful, fer we can’t hunt it up now wid toime racin’ by like a mill-shtrame—”

“I’m unpartikilar, truly. I don’t mind the leastest bit—”

“Well, mine wud be too shmall fer the likes av ye annyway, an’ I nade thim mesilf. So tuck your hands clost under, me darlint, an’ ye won’t be afther falin’ the cold. Now thin, is it ready ye are?”

“Yes, oh, yes.”

“Hi, there, Danny! Hi, there, Whitefut!” he shouted. “Buckle to, me byes; the luck av the wurrld is foldin’ her arrms about me at this toime, an’ no mishtake. Git a move on ye, childer.”

The horses obeyed his voice with alacrity, as if they were eager to get their work over; the bells jingled, the snow beneath the runners gave out a sharp hissing sound by way of answer, and the little sweetheart, only her face showing out of the old brown rug as she nestled close against the man’s arm, laughed merrily.

Before them the happy road, its joyous voices still calling to her, went on and on into the very rim of the sky; behind them the white earth stretched. They didn’t glance back—why should they? There was not much to see,—nothing but the empty plain and the lonely little house that seemed to shiver there all by itself; the silent little house where no child played, or looked from any of its windows. It seemed to have no love for the outer world, and no interest in it; yet zigzagging from its door were the prints of certain steps—too big for a fairy, too tiny for a man,—a strange huddle of marks ever forming new paths, and finally coming to an end at the side of the road.

And the road led north, and the road led south, but nowhere was there any trace of a small maid faring forth on a mission of discovery. One would never have dreamed of her passing that way, had it not been for those adventurous footprints and for the little red mitten that showed upon the snow like a hand flung out in a silent good-by.