i’ve lighted the lantern for ye, hugh.” the rays of the lantern shone on the meek, wrinkled face, bringing out faint lines and lighting up the yellow-white hair that framed it. the hair was a little rough from the pillow. she had not thought to smooth it since—wakened by some inner voice—she had risen to see that all was well with the bairns.
“she ’s been long gone,” she said, looking up to him as he drew on his great mittens and reached for the lantern. “the pillow was cold.” the face beneath the wrinkled lines tried hard to hold itself steady.
“you ’re not to worrit, ellen. i ’ll find her. i ’ll bring her back.” he had thrown open the door and the cold air rushed in.
she shrank a little from it, staring at the dark. “she ’ll be fey,” she said, “wi’ the cold and wet and dark. i must have the kettle hot.” she turned toward the stove.
he stooped to examine the snow in the light from the door. then he lifted himself, a look of satisfaction in the grim face. “shut the door, ellen,” he called, “i ’ll follow ’em now in the dark.”
she came quavering. “can ye see, hugh!” she strained her eyes toward him.
“shut the door,” he said. “i can follow—wi’ this.” he lifted the lantern a little and she saw the old face, stern and hopeful.
she shut the door and watched through the window as the great figure lunged away. the lantern swayed from side to side with the huge strides, as if a drunken man carried it across the wastes. but the lantern went straight. it was making for the oak wood.
the sky overhead was sown thick with stars, flung like a royal canopy above the earth. the shepherds keeping watch over their flocks would have needed no other light to guide them, and hugh tomlinson, stooping to the little fat tracks that spudded through the snow, had little need of the lantern that swung from his great hand. the tracks led straight across the country without swerving to left or right. they crossed the wood and came into the open.... he followed them fiercely, like a great dog, unheeding whither they might lead. suddenly, with a muffled cry, he stopped....
straight before him ran the creek and out from the bank stretched a frail band of ice. beyond—the water swirled black and sluggish. he hurried to the brink and stood staring—not a sound to break the silence. he strained his eyes across the thin edge of ice. surely it could not have borne the weight of a tiny child. he wheeled about and looked up to the stars. they twinkled in their places—remote and glad. there was no help in them. slowly his eyes dropped.... he started—shading them, as if from a vision, peering forward. there in the window of the little house, gleamed a light.
he strode forward blindly, his eyes fixed on it. as he drew near, he sank to his knees, creeping almost on all fours; but at the window he clutched the sill and raised himself.... within the green-trimmed room with its glinting light and soft glow sat the man and the child—asleep before the fire. the child’s head rested against the man’s breast and his face drooped till his cheek touched the modeling curls.
for a moment hugh tomlinson eyed the sweet scene—like some gaunt wolf at the window. then he strode to the door and throwing it open entered without knocking.
the man at the fire looked up with startled glance. he had been dreaming, and it might have been an apparition of his dream that loomed in, out of the night.
the two men regarded each other.
the gaunt one stepped forward a pace. “gi’e her to me,” he said. “she belongs to me.”
“and i thought she was mine,” said simeon. a sad little smile played about his lips. he moved toward the man, holding out his hand. “forgive me, tomlinson,” he said.
the scotchman did not touch the outstretched hand. he looked down at it dourly. “gi’e her to me,” he repeated.
then, as they stood confronting each other, the bells rang.... they sounded faint across the snowy waste, striking the hour. the last stroke died upon the air, and silence settled in the little room—with greenness and the scent of firs.
“peace on earth, good-will toward men,” said simeon in a low voice. “make it peace for me, hugh tomlinson.”
“gi’e her to me,” said tomlinson again.
the man made no reply, but the child reached up a sleepy hand and slipped it about his neck. “i love cinnamon,” she said drowsily.
then the scotchman came nearer. the bony hand did not lift itself from his side and there was no softening of the grim face—“the lord do unto ye as ye have done unto me and mine, simeon tetlow,” he said solemnly.
he reached out his arms for the child and the man surrendered her to them—gently, that the sleeping lids might not wake. the old scotchman gathered her in, close—the folds of his great-coat wrapped protectingly about her. then, his eyes bent hungrily upon her, without a backward look, he went out into the night.
simeon tetlow watched him go, with quiet smile. his hands had dropped to his sides.
thoughts played across the thin face—gleams of light and humor and gentleness. he lifted his head, with a quick glance about the fragrant room. the fire had died down, but a soft light glowed everywhere. he sat down holding out his hands to the warmth, the quiet smile still resting on his face and the shadow in the eyes fading before it, flickering away to its place in the night. the eyes shone with swift, new light; it played upon the face as it bent to the coals—the intent, human eyes gazing at something there.... slowly the vision lifted itself—shining rails gleamed upon the night. they lay upon the land, the silvery tracings branching left and right. a white light shone from them. simeon tetlow, looking with rapt gaze, saw a new world. the curse could not touch him here.... it could never touch him again. something cold and hard had snapped at a word. the forgiveness he had begged of the stern scotchman had come to him... . there had been no curse... only the hardness and bitterness in his heart—that would not say “forgive.” the word had lingered at the door of his lips through weeks of pain and the darkness—wandering rebellion, sick fancies.... “forgive me, hugh.” he had said it—low and humble, unawares, out of the depths... and suddenly he had stood erect. “forgive me, hugh.” he whispered it again, looking into the deep coals. ... troops of faces filed before him and he stretched out dumb hands to them. the coals deepened and spread, and the great road lay among them. his eyes rested on it wistfully. a still, clear light was on the country-side.... miles of wheat and corn, great tracks of prairie, mountains of ore—lighted by it. but his eye swept them as a bird sweeps river and wood and plain in its homing flight.... the light was falling on the faces of men and women and children and the faces were turned to him—waiting. the coals had died to a tiny spark. he rose and put on fresh wood and the flames leaped and ran up the green walls. he fell to musing again.... the dream held him.... life opened.... softly the bells were ringing in that other world.... little peals that broke and rang—great swinging bells. he bent his head to the sound. it grew, and died away to lightest touch and rang again, clear and fresh.... it was nearer now... nearer—he turned his head. the sound had stopped—at the very door—the boy had come!
before he could rise from his place, the door swung open to the freshness of the night and the boy was at his side.... “merry christmas, sir.” he bent swiftly to the lifted, smiling face—“you are better,” he cried, bending nearer in the flickering light, doubting and eager.
“i am well, john!” he was on his feet, both hands outstretched to the boy.
they stood thus, the fire leaping on their faces, their hands clasped. ... then they drew apart smiling.... the man moved his hand toward the dusky, fragrant room. “i am ready to go,” he said.
the young face lighted. “we need you, sir. we need you the worst way!”
“at the office?” simeon motioned to a chair. “sit down—tell me.”
the young man shook his head. “not tonight.” he looked at his watch. “it is after one. you must sleep.”
“i shall sleep,” said simeon contentedly. “and tomorrow we will talk it over,” said john.
“tomorrow we will go,” said the man.
