he sat in front of the fire brooding absently. he had been alone all day—ever since john left in the early morning. the boy was coming back tonight. he had said that he would come—but that simeon must not wait for him; he must go to bed as usual. it was late now, but simeon in front of the fire waited impatiently.... a strange loneliness was on him. outside the snow had been falling fitfully all day. the ground was covered with still whiteness. across the waste of snow he heard a distant clock strike softly and far away—eight—nine—ten—and still he waited, brooding there by the fire. he wanted to see some one—to touch a friendly hand—before he fell into the deep sleep that would cut him off. a strange yearning toward his fellowmen had come upon him in the last days. the child’s words followed him wistfully—“we must e’en love ’em,” he whispered to himself, wondering at the strange tugging at his heart—tiny cords seemed to reach out from him, threading their way, spreading wide-seeking men and women.
he rose and paced the little room. he was not the man who had entered it ten weeks ago—broken, helpless in weakness. his step on the floor was firm and the hand that reached out to the tongs was steady in its grip. he readjusted a log in the fireplace and replaced the tongs. then he stood looking down at the fire. he had grown fond of the flames—leaping there. he would miss them when he went back to his office—and the cold town house. he glanced about the little room affectionately.
... the boy had filled it with love and thoughtfulness from the first day. it was sweet now with pine and spruce and hemlock—fastened everywhere—running along the walls and heaped in corners. the boy had brought it in from the woods for christmas day. the scent of it was like the woods themselves—something mysterious and deep was in the room. the woods were in the room. the man breathed deep and looked around him.... how he would miss it all.... but his work was waiting... and he was ready. he stretched out an arm straight from the shoulder and looked with quiet pride at the hand. it did not quiver, by a breath, from its place. the arm dropped at his side.... he was ready... almost. the shadow flickered across his face. it retreated to his eyes and crouched ... waiting. he sat down before the andirons and looked defiantly into the hot coals.... some senseless, half-crazed words mumbled at him.... he shrugged his shoulder.... he would not hear them. the firm hand had clinched itself on his knee.... a face grew out of the fire, red-eyed and old and imbecile. it swung before his gaze full of hatred and leering malice, and the clinched hand lifted itself. ... the face was fading, line by line, in the flickering light. the mumbled words grew faint. they sank to a whisper... and died away. ... it was the voice of the child—clear and low, “we must e’en forgi’e ’em.”
he sank hack, wiping the heads from his forehead. he stared before him—seeking a way out.... he had offered the man money.... he had given him the farm, free of rent—and it was a good farm, they said—the bardwell farm—was it not enough?... he brooded on it, sitting there. the loneliness outside crept into the room.... the snow had ceased to fall, and through the uncurtained window he caught a glimpse of light shining. he got up and went to the window and looked out. the white clouds seemed to be being drawn across the sky by unseen hands; beyond them the stars shone clear. the snowy landscape glowed faint beneath them.... suddenly he uttered an exclamation and turned away. he crossed quickly to the door and threw it open and stood peering out.
a little figure was coming up the path, nodding and blowing—her curls were afloat and her little face glowed in the light from the door.
“i ’m coming,” she panted heavily, “i ’ve got here.”
“i should think you had.” his voice was stern. but he had gathered her in his arms, holding her close. she struggled a little and he set her down. “i ’m wet,” she announced—“i’m most wet fru, i guess.”
he found some old underclothing of john’s and took off the wet things, holding them up, one by one, to the light and looking at her reproachfully. she had come apparently in her nightdress, with the addition of an extra shirt, one stocking, one legging, a pair of overshoes and her little fur coat and cap.
“i could n’t find my fings,” she explained, “not all of my fings—in the dark.”
“what did you come for?” asked simeon severely.
her rosy happiness precluded sentiment—and kindness.
she glanced at the glowing fire and then at his face. she looked down at her pink toes, peeping from below john’s drawers—the drawers wrinkled grotesquely on the fat legs and she tried to hold them up a little as she approached him, humbly.... simeon was angry—she could see it from the tail of her eye, as she drew nearer with downcast head. “i wanted to see santa claus,” she said. she had come very close now and she put out a fat hand, resting it on his knee.
he bent a little toward her. “you should have waited till tomorrow, child. don’t you know i shall have to take you back—”
she lifted a stricken face.
“—in the cold and snow,” went on simeon unheeding.
her lip quivered. with a bound she had buried her face in his breast.—“don’t take me, cinnamon!” she wailed—“please don’t take me—back!”
“but your grandfather and grandmother will worry—”
she lifted a reassuring, streaming face, “they don’t know about me,” she sobbed, “i am sound asleep.” she snuffed a little and fumbled in the capacious folds of john’s undershirt for a handkerchief.
simeon produced his and she accepted it meekly. she wiped her cheeks with it and stowed it away. “i peeked—” she said, “in the door and they was asleep—both of ’em—and gran’ther was a-snorin’—”
“suppose they wake up,” said simeon.
she looked at him piteously. “santa claus can’t come to our house,” she said. her lip trembled.
“why not?”
“he can’t get in.”
“oh.”
“they ’ve shut up the chimbley.” she moved a fat hand toward the fireplace—“i cried about it,” she explained, “and then i went to sleep—i prayed too, but that did n’t do any good,” she threw in. “and then i waked up in the dark and ’membered you, and that’s how i come.” she nestled to him.
his arms were close around her. “you shall stay till the clock strikes twelve—that’s when he comes—”
she nodded sagely.
“and then i ’ll carry you home.”
she sank back with a little sigh of content. the pink toes cuddled themselves in the warm folds and the moist eyes rested dreamily on the coals.
simeon, holding her in his arms, had a sense of life—its goodness and fullness. the loneliness had fled from the little room. it was filled with love, and the world outside was full of friendliness—it held them close.
the child stirred a little. “we did n’t hung up my stocking,” she said drowsily.
simeon looked down at the stocking steaming with faint warmth from the fire. “it ’s too wet,” he said.
she roused herself and sat up—“don’t i have no stockings?” she demanded.
he hesitated. then he got up and brought one of his own and suspended it from the corner of the shelf.
she surveyed it with dubious content. a little question flitted, and she raised an anxious, startled face. “he might fink it was yours,” she said.
“we ’ll tell him,” said simeon, “the minute he comes.”
“i ’ll tell him.” the eyes had flashed wide. they shone dizzily—the little hands clasped themselves—“i ’ll tell him,” she whispered.
“all right.”
she sat very straight, her gaze fixed on the exact spot where he should come.... her shoulders drooped a little, but she caught them at it and shook them sternly. then the eyes blinked—once—twice, and the brown curls nodded. the watching figure was sinking inch by inch into the great folds that enwrapped it. she lifted a heavy, dreamy face to simeon’s—“i can’t keep—awake—cinnamon,” she breathed—very wistful—with little jerks between.
“never mind, dear.” he laid a hand on the bending head. “go to sleep. i ’ll wake you when he comes.”
with a deep sigh, the head sank against the strong shoulder. the firelight played across the little figure in its clumsy garments; it touched the sleeping face and tipped the nodding curls.
simeon watched it, the world in his heart speaking low.
