“No, fur he ain’t here.”

“Who? The—”

“Yep—feller y’ come to see.”

She humored him. “You mean the—”

“Yep.”

“Come along, Father Christmas,” shouted Cheviot, taking the tundra on a run.

“Father Christmas! D’ ye hear wot he’s callin’ me?”

“Where is he, then?” Hildegarde persisted.

“Dead.”

“Oh, I’m disappointed to hear that. You are too young for Father Christmas, but I was beginning to hope you might be the hermit.”