He was glad he had sent Nellie a present.
Bright and early the next morning he was up to have a final look at the tree before Phoebe came down. A blizzard was blowing furiously; the windows were frosted; the house was cheerless. He built the fires in the grates and sat about with his shoulders hunched up till the merry crackle of the coals put warmth into his veins. The furnace! He thought of it in time, and hurried to the basement to replenish the fires. They were out. He had forgotten them 131 the night before. Bridget found him there later on, trying to start the kindling in the two furnaces.
“I clean forgot ’em last night,” he said, sheepishly.
“I don’t wonder, sor,” said Bridget, quite genially for a cold morning. “Do you be after going upstairs this minute, sor. I’ll have them roaring in two shakes av a lamb’s tail. Mebby there’s good news for yez up there. Annie’s at the front door this minute, taking a telegram from the messenger bye, sor. Merry Christmas to ye, sor.”
“Merry Christmas, Bridget!” cried he, gaily. His heart had leaped at the news she brought. A telegram from Nellie! Hurrah! He rushed upstairs without brushing the coal dust from his hands.
The boy was waiting for his tip. Harvey gave him a quarter and wished him a merry Christmas.
“A miserable day to be out,” said he, undecided whether to ask the half-frozen lad to stay and have a bite of breakfast or to let him go out into the weather.
“It’s nothin’ when you gets used to it,” said 132 the blue-capped philosopher, and took his departure.
“But it’s the getting used to it,” said Harvey to Annie as she handed him the message. He tore open the envelope. She saw the light die out of his eyes.
The message was from Ripton, the manager, and read:—