“Yes, mam, I come fur Swickey.”

Avery, muffled in winter clothing, his white beard powdered with snow, seemed to Miss Wilkins to embody in his huge proportions the spirit of the December storm that swept hissing by her door, striking fantastic forest silhouettes on the shop windows behind which stood a dejected-looking array of plumes and bonnets, only dimly visible to the passer-by.

“Oh, Mr. Avery, I didn’t know you at first. Come right in and sit down. Nanette has gone over to the store for me. She’ll be back right away.”

The old man moved cautiously through the narrow doorway, to the sewing-room of the shop, allowing generous margins as he passed tables and chairs, for his natural respect for “wimmen-folks” was augmented to a nervous self-consciousness, surrounded as he was by so many outward and visible signs of femininity in various stages of completion.

“You just make yourself to home. Take off your coat and scarf. Here,”—she pushed a big rocking-chair toward him,—“draw right up to the stove and get warm.”

“Thanks, Miss Wilkins, but I be tol’able warm. You said Swickey was comin’ right back?”

“Yes; she just went over to the dry-goods store for me. You’ll be surprised to see how much Nanette has grown.”

“Do all the folks call her Nanette now?” asked Avery.

“I think so. You see ‘Nanette’ is so much prettier than ‘Swickey.’ I have always called her Nanette. She is getting used to it, and so are her friends. Of course; Jessie Cameron—” Miss Wilkins hesitated.

“Yes, of course. Thet’s diff’runt. Jessie knowed her when she was Swickey and nothin’ else.”

Avery rocked slowly, working the chair away from the stove by gradations. Despite his long, cold ride from the Knoll, little beads of sweat glistened on his forehead. Anticipation and Miss Wilkins kept him warm.

“Nanette is doing well at school,” said the little dressmaker, as she snipped busily with her scissors. “She is naturally bright. All she needed was other young girls about her as an incentive to study.”

“Thet’s right,” Avery agreed promptly. “I allus said so. Swickey was allus incensive to studyin’ if it was brung out. I sweat consid’able tryin’ to bring it out, but Dave Ross was the man what got her started. He was thet patient and pa’tic’lar, never gettin’ riled, but settin’ thar learnin’ her in the evenin’s and she askin’ questions as would swamp a goat. Them kind of questions as would jest nachally set me to argifyin’ and fergittin’ ’bout learnin’ her. But he kep’ on, pleasant-like, until she got curious to learn, jest to spite herself, I reckon. When he went to Boston, she jest couldn’t keep still,—frettin’ and frettin’ but sayin’ nothin’. I seed they was suthin’ comin’, and when she said she wanted to come to Tramworth to school, I pertended to be supprised, but I wa’n’t.”

“Is Mr. Ross coming to Lost Farm again? You said you expected him last fall.”

“I were. But things in Boston kep’ him flyin’ round thar. He’s been organizin’ and consolidatin’, and he were a’most ready to come up last year when the snow come and it wa’n’t no sense of his comin’ til spring. And he were a mighty sick man likewise. His aunt she writ me a letter sayin’ how clust he come to passin’ on beyant, and fur me to go slow when I writ to him, account of stirrin’ him up. But he’s all right now, and he says he’s a-comin’ in the spring, sure as eggs. Reckon Swickey’ll be glad. She sot a lot of store by her Dave. I reckon I done so, too, fur I was thet lonesome-like m’self. He was good comp’ny of the quiet kind, suthin’ like a tree in the front yard what ain’t attractin’ much attention til it’s gone. Of course Jim Cameron come up. But Jim he jest sets me itchin’ all over—sorter feelin’ like as if he was dyin’ to see inside of everything in the house, includin’ yourself. Mebby you have noticed thet about Jim. Howcome he’s a good friend. Beats all how he took to Dave; always talkin’ ’bout him and askin’ when he’s comin’ back, and Jim don’t hanker after most city-folks nuther. Thet’s a pow’ful good stove you got.”

“Is it too warm? I’ll just check it.” Which Miss Wilkins did with a deft hand wrapped in the corner of her apron.

“’Bout her board,” said Avery, drawing a shiny wallet from his pocket. “I reckon as it’s comin’ nigh on to Christmas I’ll pay you fur the rest of the year and up to nex’ spring.” He counted out the sum and handed it to her. “Thet sets me thinkin’.” He arose and successfully navigated the perils of the sewing-room and presently returned with a bundle. “Left this in the front when I come in, and a’most forgot it.”

He untied the string and out rolled what seemed to be several glossy otter pelts.

“Goodness!” exclaimed Miss Wilkins, a trifle surprised.

“These here,” continued Avery, “is me and Swickey’s present to Miss Jane Wilkins fur Christmas, and takin’ care of his gal. Thought mebby you’d like ’em. I sent ’em to Dave Ross in Boston and he had ’em made up in the latest style of fashion, howcome the muff are big ’nough most fur a whole fambly—kind of small-sized sleepin’-bag, eh?”

“Oh, they’re beautiful, Mr. Avery!” said Miss Wilkins, smoothing the silvery-brown fur and tucking her chin in its soft depth. “I just love them, but what will Nanette say?”

“Jest what I do, Miss Wilkins,—thet you took care of her, and made her dresses and showed her how to wear ’em, and learned her sewin’, and mebby done more fur her than any pusson,—even Dave Ross,—and they’s nothin’ this side of murder Hoss Avery ain’t willin’ to do fur you!”

“Well,” replied the dressmaker, smiling at her guest’s enthusiasm, “I can never thank you enough, and Nanette has been a great help to me.”

Avery felt for his tobacco, then changed his mind abruptly as he realized where he was. Conversation with Miss Wilkins was becoming embarrassing. He was afraid of doing what his daughter called simply “saying things” under stress of the emotion which was rapidly filling the void left by his late unburdening of his heart to the little dressmaker. The soothing influence of tobacco would have steadied him. She noticed his uneasiness and promptly invited him to smoke “all he wanted to.”

Avery’s appreciation of her courtesy was soon filling the room with curls and shreds of smoke, and, in keeping with his nature, it was a strong appreciation.

“There was one thing I wanted to speak about, Mr. Avery.” Miss Wilkins’s tone became more serious than heretofore. “Nanette is an attractive girl, and she’s seventeen.”

Avery nodded.

“And one or two of the young men have been seeing her home from school lately. I don’t mind that, of course,—Nanette is sensible,—but I thought I would speak about it. Young Andy Slocum seems quite interested in Nanette, and he’s wild at times, although he’s nice enough when he wants to be.”

“He’s a pow’ful good man on the drive—fur a young one,” replied Avery. “Got a heap of nerve, and cool fur a kid. Last spring he was hangin’ round my camp consid’able, makin’ hisself pleasant-like when the drive went through. Thought it was kind of queer that he should be int’rested in ole Hoss Avery. So it was Swickey he was thinkin’ of?”

“Oh, I don’t know how serious he is about it. You know young men—There’s Nanette now!”

Avery stood up as the shop doorbell clinked and jangled, and Swickey, breathless from her run across the street, cheeks rosy and brown eyes glowing, rushed to her father and flung her arms about him, kissing him again and again.

“Oh, Pop, I’m so glad you came to take me home. I couldn’t bear to think of you up there alone at Christmas-time.”

She stood looking up into his face, her hands on his shoulders, and her neat, blue-gowned figure tense with happiness.

“My! but you’re growing every day—and you ain’t growin’ thin nuther. Your ma was jest such a gal when I married her. Wal, I reckon we’ll have to git started. It gits dark purty quick nowadays, and Jim’s waitin’—”

“What beautiful furs. Oh, Pop, they’re for—”

“Miss Wilkins’s Christmas present from Swickey and her Pa. They’s a bundle in the sleigh fur you, too. Jim says it’s from Boston,—like ’nuff he knows,—seein’ he called at the station fur it,—and mebby you kin guess who sent it.”

Swickey’s face flushed slightly, but she said nothing.

“If you git ready now, Swickey, we kin go.”

“All right, Pop. Shall I bring my snowshoes?”

“You might fetch ’em. No tellin’ how things’ll be gettin’ home to-night. Bundle up good—it’s nippy.”

“Nippy? Huh!” exclaimed Swickey, as she hurried to her little bedroom upstairs. “It’s just grand and I love it.”

She took off her shoes, drew on an extra pair of heavy stockings, and going to her trunk brought out her small moosehide moccasins which she laced up snugly about her trim ankles. Then she bowed to herself in the small mirror, and, gathering up her skirts, danced to and fro across the room with girlish exuberance and happiness. Panting, she dropped to her knees before her trunk and found her “best” fur cap and gloves.

“Going home with Pop!” she kept repeating. “Going to see Smoke and Beelzebub and—Pop and I’ll go hunting and get that moose.”

“That moose” was a huge bull that had been haunting the outskirts of Lost Farm, seen by Avery on his rounds to and from the traps, and mentioned to Swickey in the letter which had preceded his arrival in Tramworth to take her home for Christmas.

With snowshoes slung over her shoulder, she reappeared in the sewing-room, laughing happily at Miss Wilkins’s expression of pleased surprise.

“You look like a regular—exploress, Nanette.”

“I’m Swickey, now, till I come back,” she replied. “And I’m ready, Pop.”

Avery donned his coat and muffler and shook hands with Miss Wilkins. She followed them to the door, beaming with the reflection of their happiness.

“Good-bye. Don’t catch cold. And do be careful, dear.”

Cameron drove over from the hotel and they climbed into the sleigh, Avery on the seat with the teamster, and Swickey, bundled in blankets, sitting back to them in the rustling straw. The horses plunged through the roadside drift and paced slowly down the main street of Tramworth. Swickey reached under the seat and found the parcel her father had spoken of. “It’s from Dave, but I wonder what’s in it?” She drew off her glove and picked a small hole in the paper. Another layer of paper was beneath it. She broke a hole in this and disclosed a wooden box. It was long and narrow and its weight suggested metal. “I know!” she exclaimed. “It’s the rifle Dave wrote about.” She hugged the package childishly, whispering, “My Dave! and just for my own self.”

Through the silent outskirts they went, the team trotting at times, then walking as the town road merged imperceptibly into the forest trail. The big horses arched their necks and threw their shoulders into the harness as the deep snow clogged the runners of the sleigh. Sometimes the momentum of the load carried them down a short pitch, the sleigh close on the horses’ heels. Cameron talked almost constantly to his team, helping them with his voice, and at each “spell” he would jump down, lift their feet and break out the accumulated clogs of snow. Avery swung his arms and slapped his hands, turning frequently to ask Swickey if she were warm enough.

The long, gloomy aisle winding past the hardwoods in their stiff, black nakedness, and the rough-barked conifers planted smoothly in the deep snow, their cold brown trunks disappearing in a canopy of still colder green, crept past them tediously. The sleigh creaked and crunched over snow-covered roots, the breathing of the horses keenly audible in the solemn silence, as their broad feet sunk in the snow, and came up again, the frozen fetlocks gleaming white in the gloom of the winter forest.

“Smoke’s keepin’ house, Swickey. Reckon he’ll be jumpin’ glad to see you.”

“Of course. Poor old Smoke. When we get rich, he’s going to stay with me all the time.”

“If he lives long enough, I reckon he will, eh, Jim?”

“No tellin’,” replied Cameron, with profound solemnity; “no tellin’. I’ve knowed worse things than thet to happen.”

“Worse things than what?” said Swickey, “getting rich?”

“Egg-sackly,” replied Curious Jim. “Gettin’ rich ain’t the worst. It takes a heap of money to keep on bein’ rich; thet’s the worst of it. Kind of a bad habit to git into. Ain’t worried ’bout it myself,” he added. “I got a plenty of other business to think of.”

Avery did not ask Jim what his “other business” was beside teaming and doing odd jobs for the Lumber Company, for he realized the teamster’s chief concern in life was to see what “other folks” were doing, although, speaking “by and large,” Cameron’s inquisitiveness was prompted by a solicitude for the welfare of his friends. Upon his lean shoulders Curious Jim carried the self-imposed burden of an Atlas.

Slowly the horses toiled over the corduroy stretch, and presently Cameron’s camp became visible through the trees.

“Here we be at the Knoll. Now, you and Swickey come in and have suthin’ hot. It’s gettin’ dark and colder than a steel trap in January.”

“You go in yourself, Jim. Me and Swickey’ll wait. We be kind of anxious to git home. Smoke’s been in the house sence mornin’ and I reckon the fire’s out and he ain’t had nuthin’ to eat.”

“All right. I’ll take these here things in to the missus.”

From the doorway Mrs. Cameron shouted an invitation, but Swickey and her father were firm. Once in the house, they knew that she would not accept their refusal to stay for the night.

Curious Jim returned to the sleigh in a few minutes and they creaked along toward Lost Farm. The early winter night, which surrounded them with muffling cold, pierced the heavy blankets round Swickey and nipped the cheeks and fingers of the two men. The trail found its way through the stark trees, a winding white path of uniform width that gleamed dimly ahead through the dusk of the overhanging branches. Slowly they topped the knoll on which the three cabins stood, banked window-high with snow. The camp looked cheerless in the frosty glimmer of its unlighted windows.

As the traces clacked, Smoke heard and barked his welcome.

“’T warn’t as heavy goin’ as I thought it would be,” remarked Cameron, as he swung the sleigh close to the cabin, his head nearly level with the snow-filled eaves. “Hear thet dog whoopin’ to git out. Guess he smells you, Swickey.”

Avery clambered down, broke through the drift to his door, and entered. Smoke jumped to his shoulder with a joyous whine and then darted past him toward the sleigh.

“Smoke! Smoke!”

As she handed the bundles to Cameron, the terrier sprang up to her, only to fall back in the smothering snow, in which he struggled sturdily, finally clambering into the sleigh with such vigor that he rolled over the side and on his back in the straw, where Swickey playfully held him, a kicking, struggling, open-mouthed grotesque of restrained affection.

Light glowed in the windows as Avery built the fire and lighted the lamps. It wavered through the frosted panes and settled on the horses, who stood, nostrils rimmed with frost and flanks steaming, like two Olympian stallions carved from mist.

“Why, Pop!” exclaimed Swickey, “you haven’t been using the front of the house at all. It’s just the same as I left it when I was here last.”

“Nope,” replied Avery. “Me and Smoke and Beelzebub’s middlin’ comf’table in the kitchen,—and it saves wood; but I’ll start the front-room stove and things’ll get het up in no time.”

“How’s the trapping?” asked his daughter, as she hung her cap and coat in the little bedroom.

“Middlin’. Ain’t did what I calc’lated to this season,” he replied, as he dumped an armful of wood on the floor.

“Fur scarce?”

“Not eggsackly scurse—but I’ve been findin’ my traps sprung reg’lar with nothin’ in ’em, and ’bout a week ago I noticed some snowshoe tracks nigh ’em what never was made by Hoss Avery. They is a new camp—Number Fifteen-Two, they calls it—where they commenced to cut this winter, right clus to Timberland. I ain’t sayin’ some of Fifteen-Two’s men’s been stealin’ my fur, but I’m watchin’ fur em. Fisty Harrigan’s boss of Fifteen-Two. Been set down a peg by the comp’ny ’count of his drinkin’ and carryin’-on.”

“Yes. I saw him in Tramworth, once,” replied Swickey.

“If Fisty’s up to pesterin’ me,” said the old man, “or thet brick-top Smeaton what’s with him,”—he struck a match viciously,—“they’ll be some pow’ful tall doin’s when I ketch ’em.”

“Now, Pop, you’re getting too old to think of doing anything like that. If anything happened to you, I don’t know what I’d do.”

“’Course not,” replied her father, smiling broadly, as she came and squatted, Indian fashion, in front of the stove. “’Course not. Don’t calc’late you be worryin’ ’bout anything happenin’ to Fisty or Red, be you?”

She laughed merrily. “Why should I? I don’t belong to either of them.”

“So you ain’t forgot you belongs to your Pa, yit? Wal, I guess eddication ain’t spoilin’ you a’ter all. It do spile some folks what gits it too sudden-like; them as ain’t growed up ’long with it nacheral.”

Swickey gazed at the red chink of the damper. Suddenly she sprang up. “Why, Pop! I was forgetting about supper.”

“Why, Swickey,—I forgot—’bout supper likewise,” said her father, mimicking her. “I’ll fetch in some meat. Got a nice ven’son tenderline in the shed, and you kin make some biscuits and fry them p’tatus; and I got some honey from Jim last fall,—he ought to be in purty quick now,—and they’s some gingerbread and cookies in the crock. I reckon with some bilin’ hot tea and the rest of it, our stummicks kin limp along somehow till mornin’.”

“Whew! she’s colder than a weasel’s foot down a hole,” exclaimed Curious Jim, a trifle ambiguously, as he came in with a gust of wind that shook the lamp-flame.

Beelzebub, solemn-eyed and portly, lay before the kitchen stove, purring his content. Smoke followed Swickey, getting in her way most of the time, but seemingly tireless in his attentions. Avery smoked and talked to Cameron in subdued tones as he watched his daughter arrange the table-things with a natural grace that reminded him poignantly of the other Nanette. “Jest like her—jest like her,” he muttered.

“Yes, he does like her, don’t he?” remarked Cameron, referring to Smoke’s ceaseless padding from stove to table and back again.

“Wal, I reckon!” said Avery. “Had two chances fur a car-ride to Boston, but he come back here a-flyin’ both times. You can’t fool a dog ’bout whar he’d ruther be, same as you kin some folks.”

“No, you can’t,” replied Cameron sagely, “’speshully on a winter night like this one.”

Swickey left the men to their pipes when she had washed the supper dishes, and went to the front room, where she opened the box from “Boston,” emitting a delighted little cry as she drew out the short rifle from its leather case. A card attached to it was closely written over with a friendly little expression of Christmas cheer from David. She tucked the card in her dress and ran to the kitchen with the rifle.

“Wal, a shootin’-iron!” exclaimed Avery, turning toward her. “Thet’s what I call purty nifty. From Dave? Wal, thet are nice!”

“Cartridges, too!” said Swickey. “Soft-point .44’s.”

“Wal, we’ll git thet moose now, sure,” said Avery, examining the rifle.

Curious Jim maintained a dignified silence. When the first joy of opening the box and displaying its contents had evaporated, he arose and shuffled toward the door, pausing mysteriously on the threshold. “You ain’t seen all they is yit,” he said, closing the door and disappearing in the night.

Avery looked at Swickey and she at him. Then they both laughed. “Thet’s Jim’s way,” said Avery.

The teamster returned with two more bundles which he placed on the table. “There they be,” he said, trying vainly to conceal his interest in their contents, “and it’s night before Christmus.”

In his excitement he had overlooked that one of the packages was addressed to him.

Swickey brought the bundles to her father. “You open them, Pop; I opened the other one.”

The old man pulled out his jack-knife and deliberately cut the string on the larger package. A gay red and green lumberman’s jacket lay folded in the paper.

Avery put it on and paraded up and down grandiloquently.

“Whee-oo! Now, who’s puttin’ on style?” said Cameron.

“From Dave likewise,” said the old man. “And I be dum’ giggered if here ain’t”—he fumbled in the pockets—“a pair of buckskin mitts. Wal, I commence to feel like a walkin’ Christmas tree a’ready.”

“And they’s anuther,” said Jim, eager that the last parcel should not be overlooked.

Avery glanced at the address, held the bundle away from him, then laid it on his knee. “Wal, I ain’t a-goin’ to open thet one to-night.”

Cameron’s face expressed a keen disappointment that was out of keeping with his unusual self-restraint.

“You might open it, Jim, seein’ as it’s addressed to you.”

With studied indifference the teamster untied the string and calmly opened the package. “What’s thet?” he asked, handing a card to Swickey.

“Why, it’s l-i-n-g-e-r-i-e, lingerie,” she replied, with a puzzled expression.

Curious Jim’s countenance expressed modulated scorn for her apparent ignorance. “Now, you spelled it right, but you ain’t said it right,” he remarked sagely. “Thet’s’ loungeree,’ meanin’ shirts and things mostly for wimmen. I was some worried ’bout that word for a spell, and so I ast the school-mam to Tramworth, and she did some blushin’ and tole me. And sure enough it’s shirts,” he exclaimed, taking two heavy flannel garments from the package; “fur me, I reckon by the size. And here’s another leetle bundle fur Jessie and one for the missus. And a pipe.” This latter Cameron examined closely. “Silver trimmin’s, amber stem, and real French brier—and I carried thet clean from Tramworth and never knowed it!”

He immediately whittled a palmful of tobacco and filled the pipe, lighted it with great deliberation and much action of the elbow, and sat back puffing clouds of smoke toward the ceiling.

“Now, who’s putting on style?” said Swickey, and they all laughed.

So they sat the rest of the evening, each thinking of David, until Swickey, drowsy with the heat of the big stove, finally bade them good-night and went to her room.

“I’m glad Ross is comin’ up next spring,” said Cameron.

“So be I,” replied Avery.

“Some young folks I could name needs settin’ back where they belong,” ventured Cameron mysteriously.

“Seen Andy Slocum lately?” asked Avery, in a casual manner.

“Huh?” Cameron was startled at his companion’s uncanny “second-sight” as he mentally termed it. “Oh, Andy?—sure—seen him stand-in’ in the window of the hotel when we druv by comin’ home.”