"Oh, goshwalader!" exclaimed the man, almost breaking out into a hornpipe. "The Lord on'y knows what will happen ef things once git a goin' right! Mr. Webb, thar's my han' agin'. Ef yer'd gone ter heaven fer her, yer couldn't 'a got sich a gell. Well, well, give me a chance on yer place, an' I'll work fer yer all the time, even nights an' Sundays."
It was hard for them to get away. The child dropped her books and toys, and clung to Amy. "She knows yer; she knows all about yer," said the delighted father. "Well, ef yer must go, yer'll take suthin' with us;" and from a great pitcher of milk he filled several goblets, and they all drank to the health of little Amy. "Yer'll fin' half-dozen pa'triges under the seat, Miss Amy," he said, as they drove away. "I was bound I'd have some kind of a present fer yer."
She waved her hand back to him, and saw him standing bareheaded in the cutting wind, looking after her.
"Poor old Lumley was right," said Webb, drawing her to him; "I do feel as if I had received my little girl from heaven. We will give those people a chance, and try to turn the law of heredity in the right direction."
In the twilight of that evening, Mr. Alvord sat over his lonely hearth, his face buried in his hands. The day had been terribly long and torturing; memory had presented, like mocking spectres, his past and what it might have been. A sense of loneliness, a horror of great darkness, overwhelmed him. Nature had grown cold and forbidding, and was losing its power to solace. Johnnie, absorbed in her Christmas preparations, had not been to see him for a long time. He had gone to inquire after her on the previous evening, and through the lighted window of the Clifford home had seen a picture that had made his own abode appear desolate indeed. In despairing bitterness he had turned away, feeling that that happy home was no more a place for him than was heaven. He had wandered out into the storm for hours, like a lost spirit, and at last had returned and slept in utter exhaustion. On the morning preceding Christmas memory awoke with him, and as night approached he was sinking into sullen, dreary apathy.
There was a light tap at the door, but he did not hear it. A child's face peered in at his window, and Johnnie saw him cowering over his dying fire. She had grown accustomed to his moods, and had learned to be fearless, for she had banished his evil spells before. Therefore she entered softly, laid down her bundles and stood beside him.
"Mr. Alvord!" she said, laying her hand on his shoulder. He started up, and at the same moment a flickering blaze rose on the hearth, and revealed the sunny-haired child standing beside him. If an angel had come, the effect could not have been greater. Like all who are morbid, he was largely under the dominion of imagination; and Johnnie, with her fearless, gentle, commiserating eyes, had for him the potency of a supernatural visitor. But the healthful, unconscious child had a better power. Her words and touch brought saneness as well as hope.
"Why, Mr. Alvord," she cried, "were you asleep? See! your fire is going out, and your lamp is not lighted, and there is nothing ready for your supper. What a queer man you are, for one who is so kind! Mamma said I might come and spend a little of Christmas-eve with you, and bring my gifts, and then that you would bring me home. I know how to fix up your fire and light your lamp. Then we'll get supper together. Won't that be fun?" and she bustled around, the embodiment of beautiful life.
"Oh, Johnnie!" he said, taking her sweet face in his hands, and looking into her clear eyes, "Heaven must have sent you. I was so lonely and sad that I wished I had never lived."
"Why, Mr. Alvord! and on Christmas-eve, too? See what I've brought you," and she opened a book with the angels' song of "peace and good-will" illustrated. "Mamma says that whoever believes that ought to be happy," said the child. "Don't you believe it?"