“You've told me that you love her.”
She was on the point of leaving. With quiet decision he put his back against the door, preventing her from opening it.
“Madam,” he said, “old as you are, you owe me some consideration. Before you go, I at least have a right to ask your name.”
She smiled wistfully. The harshness in her face was replaced by a glow of tenderness. “Yes, you have the right. I am called 'the Little Grandmother.' I am a readjuster of destinies—the champion of the down-trodden. I fight for those for whom the world has ceased to care.”
“But what have you to do with Santa?”
“She has been oppressed.”
“And because she has been oppressed, you overlook any crimes she may have committed?”
“I am not God, that I should judge. If people's hearts are empty, I reckon them my children.”
“Let me ask you one more question. Did Santa tell you that she loved me?”
The old head shook sorrowfully. “To act nobly it is not necessary to be loved in return. Let me go. Do not try to follow me.”