Her lip trembled.
“But I’m goin’ with you all the way,” she declared stoutly.
“Sure, an’ I wish it from me heart, only ’tis partin’ we must be. Ye see ye can go on, an’ Danny an’ Whitefut will be proud to draw ye; but ’tis ’most night, an’ the way gets bad up yonder, an’ there’s the lake to cross, an’ I’m not always the stiddy driver—to me shame be it said—”
“I’d sit very still—”
“An’ ’twill be cold, bitther cold! Thin I’ve been thinkin’, I didn’t tell ye this afore; but no child has iver seen me house—’tis a thing av drames (an’ sure that’s the truth!). Whisper now, cud ye see it, it wud all split to smither-eens wid a crack like doom. An’ where wud I be thin? The folks wud have to do widout me, I’m thinkin’—”
“The little children—us?” she asked round-eyed.
“That wud be the size av it. Av coorse ye could kape on wid the dep-puties; I’ve trained thim well, an’ the spirit av Christmas niver dies, the givin’ an’ the lovin’, fer the Lord made thim in his own imidge. But ye’d be missin’ me, ye know.”
She was very still, the little pucker showing between her anxious brows.
“I’ve an iligint plan. Yon’s a foine place to spind the night, an’ iv’rything will come right in the mornin’. Oh! ye’ll see. An’ ye’ll hang up your shtockin’ same as usuwil; but first ye must put that bit there down in the toe av it, an’ ’twill be Merry Christmas all ’round. Will ye tell me good-by now, swateheart, an’ let me go on to kape me wurrd that I’ve been afther passin’ sacred-loike?”
“Yes,” she said gravely. “I wanted to see Vixen and Oncome-it close, but I’ll let you go, ’count o’ the children, ev’rywheres.”