THE day was several hours older when Humphrey and Elisabeth Shawe started for Thornby’s camp. Before that time, however, poor Uncle Steven, weary and disheartened and looking suddenly like an old, old man, had returned from his futile search in and around Wistar, accompanied by a number of the inhabitants of the little town who were eager to lend what aid they could, although they realized how unavailing their efforts must prove.

They had expected to find the house wrapped in gloom, but instead, as they stopped at its door, a young woman with a radiantly happy face ran toward them crying out the joyful news. Then a mighty shout went up from the sleighs,—no one knew who started it, but it grew and grew, until it seemed to reach the sky, and when it died away—it was a long while before that happened, because it was always breaking out again—there was a great blowing of noses and clearing of throats, as if an epidemic of influenza was raging among them all. As soon as quiet was restored every one went within-doors to find Shawe, who was resting under the strictest orders not to move, and who was allowed to remain quiet no longer. There would be ample time on another day to get over his fatigue; for the present he had to submit to being made much of. Such a shaking of hands as took place then,—Uncle Steven started it,—and such hearty wishes as were poured forth! It wasn’t Merry Christmas just once, but it was Merry, merry Christmas over and over again, until the house rocked with the noise. And there were no reproaches in word, or thought, about that sad past, with its mistakes and misunderstandings, it was all blotted out,—just as the snow stretched its sparkling whiteness over the earth, hiding many an ugly spot, so the beautiful mantle of charity lay close over what had been.

Finally, at Shawe’s insistence, the sleigh was made ready. Not Uncle Steven’s shabby cutter, but the roomier one of the most important citizen of Wistar, who had been among the first to offer his services to find the little child. It was heaped high with robes from the other sleighs, until its gorgeousness and comfort were something to wonder at, and four horses were harnessed to it; then the best driver climbed up in front with much pride and, as soon as the husband and wife had taken their places behind him, he cracked his whip briskly, in a hurry to be gone. Again the air was rent with cheers, and amid the tumult the horses sprang forward. Ah! they were very different from sober old Danny and Whitefoot; they fairly flew over the road that had seen the jolly progress of Santa Claus and his little sweetheart the previous day, and that solemn faring southward through the night of the messenger bearing his good tidings. The bells rang out merrily,—the gayest, gladdest tune,—and the spirits of the sky, the plains, the woods, laughed back in an ecstasy of delight, echoing the happiness everywhere; as far as eye could reach the snow twinkled and shone as if with rapture that Christmas Day. There was hardly any speech among the travellers, but joy sat very close to their hearts, and no one objected to the silence.

At last the logging-camp was reached, and, as the horses drew up with a great shaking of their bells, the door of the shanty flew open, and a body of men trooped out to greet the newcomers. They had all heard of Shawe’s errand from old Jerome,—all but the child, who was kept in ignorance, because no one knew what its result would be,—and at sight of their former comrade a shout of welcome—and something more—something deeper—burst from them, to be echoed again and again. Under cover of the happy sounds Shawe, too moved for any words, jumped from the sleigh and turned to help his wife; but she scarcely touched his hand, springing past him as if she were winged. Only too well the men knew who the shining-eyed woman was, yet they had no greeting for her,—the exultation in her face silenced them all; they opened a way speedily for her to pass through, and then turned by common accord to look at the sight that would meet her. As if they could see with her eyes! And yet the picture was an unforgettable one to them.

They saw the rude familiar room, beautiful as it had never been until the previous night, with the huge fire blazing at one side, and on the hearth old Jerome bending down to the child, who, at the clatter without, had risen from her play, the skirt of her gown gathered up over a store of her new treasures as she turned wonderingly toward the door. The men, still looking, saw the little hand relax its hold hastily, so that the precious hoard fell to the floor unheeded—forgotten. The small face changed from bright to brighter,—to brightest,—they had not believed that possible,—and then they saw nothing but two figures running toward each other and meeting in a close embrace, and they heard the cries uttered in shaking voices, “Muvver—” “Dear, my little own!” mingle and lose themselves in breaking sobs and a low peal of rippling laughter.

“I swan thet hick’ry makes the ’tarnallest smoke,” Jerome muttered a moment later, “it do beat all”—he stopped, choking over the words,—“it do beat all,” he said again, blinking around with misty eyes.

Some one laughed unsteadily, and some one else coughed, then a third person sneezed—and so the charm was broken. The mother raised her head and gazed over the little shoulder at the other occupants of the room with a look of deepest gratitude. How good every one was! Her thought was plainer to them all than the most eloquent words would have been. Indeed, words were not necessary at all. Betty, in the silence, turned, and still resting in the encircling arm, smiled right and left on her many friends, then her eyes came back to the face she loved so well, and she patted it with fond fingers.

“It’s the very happiest Christmas now,” she laughed, “’thout you ’twasn’t half so nice. Did dear Santa Claus bring you, too?”

“You can never guess,” Elisabeth Shawe answered, the delight in her voice vibrating like a bell. “It was some one far better and kinder than Santa Claus, though you and I, darling, have much to thank that old man for, and we’ll bless him all our days. Listen, sweet.”

For a moment the woman bent close to whisper in the rosy ear, then, as if she realized that the men who had been so tender to her child had earned a right to share in the new-found happiness, she told the story aloud. She spoke very simply so the little hearer might understand,—indeed, it was meant chiefest for her,—but the others crowding near were not denied a glimpse of the great joy the morning had brought into three lives.

“Not daddy,” Betty screamed, as the full truth dawned upon her, “not my very own, own daddy!”

She didn’t wait for an answer but ran swiftly to Shawe, who was standing just behind, and threw herself into his arms.

“Oh! you won’t be a far-away daddy ever any more, will you?” she cried.

“Never any more,” he answered brokenly, then he gathered her close to his breast and kissed her.

The men looked on shy-eyed and silent in the presence of that boundless content. Who could say anything? Who could speak? Betty’s laughter, as her father released his hold and she slipped to the floor, acted like magic upon them all; in a moment a deafening hubbub filled the room. After it had subsided a little the Kid, who had served as master of ceremonies on several occasions, assumed the leadership; though he was the youngest of them, he knew how things were managed out in the great world. Therefore he escorted Mrs. Shawe to the seat of honor with his very best company manner,—and there never was a manner like it anywhere, so his comrades heartily declared, and I’m quite sure they were right!

The great barrel-chair which Jerome usually occupied was drawn up to the centre of the hearth, and as soon as her mother was seated Betty brought all her new treasures and displayed them with great pride, while the men nudged one another slyly as the former owners were recognized; no matter how hard they tried to appear unconscious, a quirk of pleasure, or a I-mustn’t-appear-as-if-I-had-ever-seen-that-before look was a sure indication when all other signs failed. And Betty always found them out, shouting gleefully at each discovery, while her mother smiled in gratitude, no less pleased than the little one. Well, why shouldn’t they be glad, too, to give all that pleasure? Somehow there was such a cosey, comfortable feeling about it they felt good all over, and they couldn’t keep quiet,—that was too much to expect! So the old room rang again and again with their mirth.

“Sing to us now, dear, my little own,” Elisabeth Shawe said, when the gifts had been duly admired, “sing the old song about this blessed day.”

Betty leaned against her mother’s shoulder within the happy circle of her arm.

“You too,” she whispered, “just like we always do?”

“Yes, darling, in our own way.”

The child’s glance went round the room, taking in the joyful faces that smiled back at her in friendly fashion; then she met her father’s eyes, and, reaching out, she took his hand in hers, drawing it close, until it rested on that other hand above her heart. A moment later she began to sing in her sweet little thread of a voice:

Elisabeth Shawe took up the next verse:

It was Betty’s turn:

Again there came the fuller, richer tones of the sweet antiphony:

The voices of mother and child blended in unison, filling the room with happy, rippling music:

At a signal from Shawe the men joined in the next verse, waiting for the first line to be given, and then going on with the simple iteration, until the little carol became a mighty triumphal chorus:

“Dang thet hick’ry,” old Jerome grumbled in the hush that followed, “it do set a man splutterin’ ez never was!”

THE END