TOWARD midnight somebody stepped close to the improvised bed and stood looking down with troubled eyes at the child curled up among the blankets there. The light from the low fire cast an occasional flickering flame upon the tiny segment of cheek just visible above the woollen covering, like a snowdrop peeping out of a mass of old bracken, and on the floating strands of hair that had lost their golden sheen in the semi-obscurity. An hour or so earlier the men had gone to their bunks in the long loft overhead, and their heavy breathing now proclaimed the fact that they were resting from their labors. Every one in the house was sleeping but Shawe; even old Jerome, who sat huddled by the side of the little one, nodded at his post. He had maintained the right of watching, by supremacy of his years and her evident preference for him, jealously putting aside all offers that his vigil be shared. He stirred now and opened his eyes, staring into the face of the man above him.

“What is it?” he demanded with a low, savage growl.

“I couldn’t sleep,” Shawe whispered back, “for thinking of the ones who are mourning for her,—her mother and uncle. The father isn’t home, she said. Don’t you remember—‘God bless far-away daddy’? So he won’t be troubled. But the others—they ought to know. We’ve had all the Christmas sport and they nothing but black misery and bitterness. They ought to know quickly.”

Old Jerome’s hand fluttered above the little head, half fell to it, then was drawn reluctantly back.

“Ye-es, they’d orter know,” he said dully, “but how? Who is she?” He shifted his position, averting his eyes. “I’ve be’n thinkin’ thet p’r’aps she’s nobut a little Christmus sperit come to cheer us in this God forsook spot—”

“That’s nonsense, man. Look at her sleeping there as human as we are, though with a difference. I tell you she has kith and kin, and their hearts are bleeding for her at this moment. I’m going to find them—”

“Ye sha’n’t take her with yer, Shawe,” the old man whimpered. “I’ll roust up the others, an’ they’ll fight yer—I—I can’t; she’s made me too trembly. But ye sha’n’t take her.”

“You’re crazy! I’d no thought of taking her. It’s colder than charity outside, and the frost is like a badger’s tooth. Besides, it must be almost thirty miles to Wistar, and there’s no house nearer, is there? No, I go by myself.”

“An’ ef ye don’t win through—there’s thet chanst.”

“I don’t—that’s all. But I’m not hopeless—I’ve got to win through.”

“Best wait till mornin’,” Jerome said, after the silence between them had grown unbearable, “p’r’aps somebody’ll be goin’ by from Merle, an’ ye could git a lift, or p’r’aps her folks’ll come from somewhars—Ye don’ know whar she come from, anyways,” he finished triumphantly.

“We worked out the sum that she came with that man Terry. Everything she said about Santa Claus fitted him like a glove, you—who know him—say. And he came from Wistar, so she belongs there. Perhaps her people didn’t miss her till late; and what traces would she leave if she came on in his sleigh? Answer me that. How would they ever dream of searching for her up here when there’s the river—Good God! a child like that wouldn’t notice the spruce bush signals put up where the ice is thin; and there are the open water-holes by the barns—” He stopped with a deep intake of breath, and moved nearer the fire; Jerome, watching him furtively, saw that he was fully dressed to go out.

“Wal!” he muttered slowly, after a time, “ef ye be so sot on goin’, ye’re goin’, I s’pose. P’r’aps ye’re right. Somehow I was only thinkin’ from my side, an’ hedn’t got ’roun’ to the mother’s; mebbe an ol’ codger like me never would ha’ got ’roun’—can’t say. Here’s my hand.”

It was an unusual demonstration, but Shawe showed no particular surprise; everything being a little out of the ordinary that night. He grasped the extended hand warmly, then let it drop, and turned away, bending again for a moment over the sleeping child.

“Wish I were going to hear her laugh over the stocking,” he said half to himself.

“Got a wife an’ fambly?” Jerome asked.

“No,” the other returned.

“Thought mebbe ye hed, ’count o’ yer thinkin’ how the mother’d feel—mebbe ye hed oncet.”

“Yes,” Shawe answered shortly.

“Then ye know how turr’ble masterful the kids are. Strange, ain’t it? Mine hed got so ez he could patty-cake, ye understan’. Lord! there warn’t never a sight like it—never. Thought fust ’twas a kinder fool thing the mother’d learned it; but bless yer! I didn’t think so long; ’twas the purties’ sight—

Shawe moved cautiously across the room, and paused at the door to look back at the old man softly clapping his palms together. Something in his glance recalled Jerome to a sense of his surroundings; he got up in his turn and joined his companion.

“Ye’ll keep an eye out fer them deers, won’t yer?” he whispered anxiously. “Christmus Eve they all kneel in the woods an’ look up to he’vin, ye know. Thet’s Injin talk ’roun’ here from way back; some o’ the oldest fellers swear their folks seed the thing done. Can’t say ’xactly ez I b’lieve it myself, but ’twould be a purty sight—an’ anyways, ye jes’ watch out. Wal, luck to ye, lad, luck to ye.”

“Oh! you’ll see me again, never fear,” Shawe said lightly, to cover the other’s concern. “I’m a bad penny. So long!”

He let himself out into the night, closing the door speedily, and with as little noise as possible; but quick as he had been, a blast of the nipping air filled the room. Jerome hurriedly drew the blankets closer about his little charge; then he stooped to the fire, coaxing it into a brighter glow.

“Fer a bad penny,” he mumbled, as he went back to his place, “Shawe rings oncommon true. There ain’t nary of us ez would ha’ thought o’ doin’ what he’s a-doin’—nary a blessed one of us. I swan he’s dif’runt somehow—kinder apart, but square—square. Never knowed nothin’ ’bout Shawe; hed to take him on his face value, so to say; he ain’t a gabbler ’bout himself, but gen-i-al—gen-i-al—an’ oncommon quick-witted inter the barg’in. We’d a-waited till Kingdom come afore we’d thought ’bout fillin’ them stockin’s ef he hedn’t started the game; an’ ’twas him ez heerd her callin’ when the rest of us was deef ez postses. Hmm! mebbe—” but praise and conjecture alike were silenced as the grizzled head dropped forward and the old chopper fell into a heavy doze.

Shawe, meanwhile, oblivious to both, thrust his hands deep into his pockets, and started off on his lonely errand. It might prove fruitless, but results were not for him to consider; his was to do the duty of the moment, and by the moment. Nor did it seem to him that he was doing anything to be especially commended. He had been driven out into the night by his thoughts of the distress in the child’s home, and once they had taken possession of him it was impossible to stay warm and comfortable in his bunk. He simply had to go—he could not wait. Besides, he told himself, it wasn’t much; he had been out on nights to which this, bitter as it was, was balmy by comparison. He had faced gales, terrible as that chill wind which the old Moslem fable says will blow over the earth in the last days, and yet had come safely through. There was no air stirring at this time; the intense silent cold of the North wrapped everything close. He was guarded against it, however, and while he could keep in rapid motion he had little to fear from its searching tooth.

He drove his hands deeper into his pockets and strode on. The way had been broken through some weeks earlier and was well defined; there was no chance of missing it. In the clearing the night was as bright as day; under the light of the moon the snow lay like an immense silver shield across which the trees threw bars of shadow; but as the road wound through the woods the brightness retreated in great measure, shimmering only here and there through the high trunks, striking off a gleam from this snowy head and that, or shivering down like a lance of steel as if to pierce the deeper blackness which crouched beyond.

Shawe knew no fear. He passed on silently and as swiftly as possible, casting a wary glance around occasionally; but he seemed to be the only living creature abroad that night. The deer, if there were any, were not stirring, or his eyes, perhaps, were too sceptical to witness the simple spectacle of their adoration. There was no sign of life anywhere. It was almost as if it were the end of the world, and he the last man—the last of creation—left on earth, so wide and empty were the spaces about him; the great vault overhead, in which the moon and stars rode calmly, was out of his pygmy reach.

Presently, as the trees grew sparser and the road showed its slighter depression through the plain of snow lying beyond like some frozen sea, he became conscious of life and motion close at his side. With the instinct of the woodland creatures, he held himself perfectly tense, and waited. Then right across his path there lumbered a huge, clumsy shape, its breath showing like smoke on the moonlit air. Suddenly great drops of moisture stood out on Shawe’s face as if it were mid-summer, and his weight of furs had become intolerable; he had never felt fear before, yet now panic gripped him. It was not the thought of physical hurt that appalled him, but rather the sense of the utter futility of his endeavor. So the end had come; and over there, still very far away, a little child’s mother was sobbing—he could almost hear her moans.

He stirred his hand from his pocket to his belt, and grasped the butt of his pistol, drawing it forth swiftly. It might not be too late! His finger was firm as iron as it touched the trigger; but the next instant the beast slouched noisily into the shadows beyond. There was no other sound—had been no other sound; the cartridges lay unused in their chambers. Shawe lowered his hand. He had not been dreaming, he told himself; he could swear to that. And the animal was no creature of fancy; he had seen it quite plainly, had felt its breath as it passed, had met the dull stare of its eyes. It was real,—as real as he was at that moment, yet he had not fired because there had seemed no need—the beast had simply disregarded him. Then suddenly Shawe laughed aloud, not boisterously, but very gently,—the way you do sometimes when something has happened that seems almost too good to be true, and the quick tears rush into your eyes,—I think, perhaps, they were in his also.

“It’s the peace of God,” he said softly to himself, “the peace of God—”

For on the moment he remembered the old tradition he had heard in many lands, that on the night before Christmas, from the day’s close to the day’s coming, there is no slaughter anywhere among the beasts; that the fiercest and most savage of them all are as harmless as doves to one another, and even to their natural enemy—man. He put his pistol back into his belt, unspeakably glad that no shot of his had broken the holy truce. It was useless to try to account for what had happened. To believe in the legend, or to laugh it away and attribute the animal’s indifference to some natural cause. The whole experience—dream, or reality—left him throbbing with a sense of gratitude that nothing had interfered with his mission. The thought seemed to lend him greater activity, as if his moccasined feet had suddenly become winged. There could be no loitering anywhere while the mother mourned for her little one, her voice crying vaguely, vainly, through that wonder-space of time when, because of another Little Child, God’s peace wrapped the earth close.

There were no landmarks discernible. Terry would have recognized certain ones, as would also some of the lumbermen; but to Shawe, who was a stranger, the whole country was unfamiliar; all he could do, therefore, was to lessen the distance step by step, knowing that while he kept the road he could not miss his destination. Yet he never lost heart, nor was he particularly tired. As boy and man, much of his time had been spent in the open. He was used to hardships, rough weather, and great exertion; the present undertaking seemed slight compared to others he had known.

Presently the white light of early dawn crept faintly up,—little Peep o’ Day he’s called,—a tiny fellow, truly, to be sent out to fight the darkness, and yet so persistent and undaunted that every moment he glowed more confidently at his task, and grew bigger and bigger with his efforts. The moon had looked scornfully at the coming of such an adversary; but now she paled visibly, and called in her routed army of moonbeams, while below,—the sleeping world laughed here and there at the contest, stirring out of its slumbers. As soon as his duties were accomplished, the little champion stole away, losing himself in the brightness that filled the sky, and made it and the land look like tinted silver; but nobody missed him, for the morning was at hand. There was a gorgeous, rosy flush along the east melting into purple, out of which the sun came up like a wonderful flower, opening slowly, first pink, then yellow, then red—and it was Christmas Day!

Shawe’s eyes gladdened at the sight, though he did not pause; he couldn’t—oh! now less than ever—now, he must hurry—hurry. Back in the shantymen’s hut the little child was already waking, he knew, and her glee was filling the house; but in her home others were waking, too,—they had not slept,—and listening in vain for the music of her laughter. He must hurry! So he kept on; but somehow, though he was beginning to be very tired, the going was much easier. Joy comes with the morning, and new hope; all the doubts and fears of the night disappear; they are some of the foes little Peep o’ Day vanquishes so triumphantly. Shawe couldn’t feel despondent in that beautiful world while the still morning brightened around him, especially when every step brought him nearer his goal. He laughed like a boy, and shouted out “Merry Christmas!” though there was no one by to answer his greeting; but the clear cold air bore it wide, and it helped to swell the chorus going up all over the earth.

He ran a few paces, so wonderfully light-hearted had he grown, and flung out his arms, clapping them against his body to warm himself; then he sobered down—outwardly. Nobody would ever have supposed that the tall, furclad figure with head bent a trifle, and only a bit of his face visible between his big cap and high collar was the bearer of joyful news. For one thing, he was walking quite stolidly, and your happy messengers are always winged; and for another, he was looking neither to left nor right. Wasn’t he?—Then why did he start suddenly, and throw back his head, laughing up again at the sky? Why?—Because just in front of him there was a house,—an ugly, squat little house, the glass in its windows twinkling in the sun. He drew nearer, and his heart, that had almost instantly rushed into his throat, fell back to its proper place with a most discouraging thump. The house seemed uninhabited,—deserted,—as if the people who had lived there had grown tired of being so far from the settlement, and had gone back to be with their kind, perhaps to stay there always, or at least over this day of festivity. It was impossible to associate a merry Christmas with this sober, grown-up abode. A closer approach, however, revealed a small thread of smoke issuing from the chimney; but otherwise, the general air of dreariness about the place—its loneliness, its empty, staring windows—chilled Shawe more than the winter night had done.

He went quickly up to the door, over snow that had been tracked by the passing of many feet; there were footprints everywhere,—great marks of a man’s boot, and the smaller ones of a woman’s or a girl’s shoe. The sight turned him a little giddy. Was this his goal—could his happy news be spoken here? He tried to shout, but his voice seemed frozen in his throat; he fell to trembling. He—he could not speak. He tried again, choking out a faint sound. There was no sign from the silent house that his call had been heard,—no stir, no movement of life. He flung himself against the door, and battered it with his fists. The waiting seemed like eternity to him; then his hand sought the knob, turned it, and the door flew wide. He stared half dazed into the narrow passage-way with the stairs climbing at one side; all the light seemed out in the world behind him; the place was dim and chill. For a moment he paused, then his voice sounded through the silence.

“Halloo! Halloo! Is a little child missing here?”

There was a quick sound of running feet overhead, an opening door, and a woman’s scream.

“Uncle—Uncle, have you—”

The cry went up from below:

“Is a little child missing here?”

Something darted down the stairs; one wouldn’t have said it was anything human, so swift was the motion; yet swifter than the flying feet, and very piteously human were the words that came from the mother’s heart:

“Is—is—she—dead?”

“No, I tell you, no; she’s alive and well. She’s at Thornby’s logging-camp—don’t faint! She’s all right; she’s safe, I tell you; don’t—”

Shawe was only just in time to catch the swaying form in his arms, and for the moment, as he stood there, holding the unconscious woman, he was unable to think what to do. It didn’t seem possible to him that the joy of his message could harm her; perhaps he ought to have broken it more gently—but how could he? It had to be told—— No—no—the joy couldn’t harm her! A little air, a touch of snow on her temples, and she would be herself again. He lifted his burden and turned to the open door. The clear light from without came searchingly in upon the still face on his breast, showing its pinched lines of distress and the ravages the tears had made in its fairness; he started at the sight, and uttered a sharp exclamation.

The keen air revived her; she stirred a trifle with a low moan; a minute later her eyelids fluttered, and her words came disjointedly in little sobbing breaths:

“Safe, my precious, safe—thank God, oh! thank——” The cold whipped a tinge of color into her lips; her eyes opened wide, and she stared up into Shawe’s face. A look of bewilderment suddenly clouded their gaze.

“You,” she said softly, “you—Humphrey?”

She did not move from his arm; but very slowly she lifted her hand and touched him wonderingly, her fingers lingering over his coat, and creeping up and up to his cheek.

“You, Humphrey—”

Something like a sob broke from him.

“Elisabeth!” he cried.

“I don’t understand,” she said weakly. “It was so very long ago—oh! is it really you? I—I—thought you would never come back—so long ago—and you were angry—we were both angry; but I was the one to blame——”

“No, no, no,” he interrupted, “mine was the real fault. I knew that when it was too late, but I couldn’t let you know. Before we could make our port the ship was wrecked—oh! it’s a sad story. Most of the crew were lost; but the few of us who were saved lived somehow on that desolate little island waiting—hoping—fearing—through those interminable months before the rescue came. Then we were carried off to the other side of the world, and from place to place,—wanderers on the face of the globe; but I got home at last, and—there was no home for me—you had gone away, you and Baby. They couldn’t tell me where, but I searched for you, my girl, I searched for you. I wouldn’t give up looking—I meant to find you—and it was so useless—”

She clung closer to him, stroking his quivering face with gentle fingers.

“I thought you never meant to come back,” she whispered, “and I wanted to beg you to come. I wanted to tell you I was really the most to blame, but I didn’t know where to send a letter—I had to keep still. Oh! I waited so patiently, and every day was a year. Then when you didn’t come, I couldn’t bear the neighbors’ pity; it—it hurt!—so I stole away one night with Betty. We went to a big city where no one knew us, and we were very poor. I didn’t mind much for myself, only for Baby. It was so hard to find work, I—I almost gave up. Then I remembered Uncle Steven, my mother’s half-brother, who used to be with us a good deal when I was a child. I knew he was all alone out here, and I felt he would help Betty and me in our troubles. And he was so good—he is so good! He didn’t even wait to answer my letter; he came to find us instead, and he brought us back to share his home with him. That was three years ago—— But you, how is it you are here?”

“It’s a long story, Bess, darling. I’ve knocked around everywhere. I hadn’t the heart to settle to anything, you know,—hunting, trapping, whatever offered. I’d try first one thing and then another. Something made me come over here—I don’t know what it was—I simply had to come. I was on my way to the Northwest, and passed through Wistar three weeks ago, never dreaming you were so near; then I went on to the logging-camp and stopped there for a time, but I’d made all my plans to leave to-morrow——” his voice trembled, and he rested his face against hers. “Oh!” he went on brokenly, “I might have missed you altogether; we might never have met again—never—if it hadn’t been for Santa Claus’ sweetheart——”

She looked up curiously, interrupting him with a quick exclamation, and bit by bit the account of the little child’s arrival at the lumber-camp was told.

“But didn’t you know right away who she was?” the mother asked jealously when he paused.

“Dear, I didn’t. She was such a baby when I left,—scarcely two years old, you remember. There was a likeness, though, to you that troubled me, but I told myself I was fanciful. I’ve seen that likeness so many times,—it has been upper-most in my mind, going with me everywhere, eluding me everywhere. And, her name was different—Hammond.”

“That’s uncle’s name; he would have her called so. Then you came all that way not knowing who she was, nor for my sake?”

“Yes,” he answered honestly, “I only thought of the sorrow in the stricken household. I didn’t think of you at all. And yet it was for your sake, too. Ah! Bess dear, my heart has been very tender for all mothers since I left you to fend for the little one alone. I can never make up for that—”

“Hush!” she interposed, “you have made up. Even if I’d been somebody else, and Betty somebody else, it would have atoned and doubly atoned for you to do what you have done,”—she laughed unsteadily, she was so happy that her words had become hopelessly tangled. “You know what I mean,” she finished.

“I know,” he smiled back.

“But you ought to have recognized Betty at once; there was no excuse.”

“I thought she was a dear little tot.”

“Why, Humphrey, she’s the very dearest, the sweetest, the most precious, the—”

He stopped the loving catalogue with a kiss.

“You’ll let me stay and find that out for myself, won’t you?” he asked humbly.

She clung to him, trembling all over, her face quite drawn and white.

“It won’t take long—oh! you must stay longer than that.”

“I’ll stay till the end, please God,” he said very solemnly.

As they stood together, faintly from the distance there came the sound of bells; the spirit of the blessed season filled the air,—the cheer, the peace, the good-will. North, south, east, west, along the happy roads that lead around the world, the message ran. Oh! very beautiful are the roads of the world, but surely the most beautiful of them all is little Forgiveness Lane that winds through tangles and briers, and over stony and waste places, from heart to heart and climbs at last up to the very gates of heaven.