“It—it isn’t meant for you, darling,” he said, hoarsely. “Santy left it here by mistake. We will send it back to him. It belongs to some other poor little girl.”
“But I am Cinderella!” she cried. “Mr. Fairy-fax said so. He told Santy to bring it to me. Please, daddy—please!”
He removed it gently from her fingers and dropped it into his pocket. His face was very white.
“Santy isn’t that kind of a man,” he said, without rhyme or reason. “Now, don’t cry, dearie. Here’s another present from mamma. See!”
Later in the morning, after she had quite forgotten the slipper, he put it back in the box, wrapped it carefully, and addressed the package to L. Z. Fairfax, in New York City, without explanation or comment.
Phoebe
Before the morning was half over he was playing with Phoebe and her toys quite as 135 childishly and gleefully as she, his heart in the fun she was having, his mind almost wholly cleared of the bitterness and rancour that so recently had filled it to overflowing.
The three of them floundered through the snowdrifts to the station, laughing and shouting with a merriment that proved infectious. The long-obscured sun came out and caught the disease, for he smiled broadly, and the wind gave over snarling and smirked with an amiability that must have surprised the shivering horses standing desolate in front of certain places wherein their owners partook of Christmas cheer that was warm.