When the little folks returned something had disturbed the green boughs in the chimney-place. Dot had only begun to eye that place of mystery with growing curiosity, when there was a shaking of the branches, two mighty thumps upon the brick hearth, and pushing through the greenery came Santa Claus himself.
“Merry Christmas! And the best of iv’rything to ye!” cried the good saint jovially.
“Oh, my!” gasped Dot. “Is—is it the really truly Santa Claus?”
“I don’t believe that Santa is Irish,” whispered Tess. “This is just in fun!” But she could not imagine, any more than did Dot, who it was behind the mask and great paunch that disguised the Santa Claus.
They all hailed him merrily, however. Even Miss Pepperill and Aunt Sarah entered into the play to a degree. Santa Claus went to the tree and they all sat along the opposite side of the cleared table, facing him. With many a quip and jest he brought the packages and presented them to those whose names were written on the wrappers. At one place quite a little pile of presents were gathered, all addressed to Neale O’Neil.
“Oh, dear me!” sighed Tess, almost overcome with joy, yet thinking of the absent one. “If Neale were only here! I do so want to see how he likes his presents.”
But Neale did not come. The two little girls finally tripped up to bed with their arms full. Then the party broke up and the masquerading Santa Claus took off his paunch and false face in the kitchen.
“Shure I promised the lad I’d do it for him,” said Mr. Con Murphy, accepting a piece of Agnes’ cake and sitting down to enjoy it. “No, he’s not mad wid yez. Shure not!”
“But why didn’t he come to dinner?” demanded Agnes, quickly.
“He ain’t here,” said the cobbler, quietly. “He’s gone away.”