She signified her willingness without delay, though first her stocking must be hung up among the others. He proceeded to draw it off; but before that could be accomplished, he was let into the secrets the buttons on your shoe always tell,—what you are to be, what you will wear, and in what manner you will travel through life,—in carriage, cart, wheelbarrow, or wagon. When this “sure-as-sure” knowledge had been mastered he stripped off the stocking, and Shawe, imperiously summoned, came close and put the wee packet, as she directed, way down in its very toe; then he hung it up in the centre, where even the blindest deputy, supposing Santa Claus unable to get round, would never have passed it by. A rollicking little cheer went up at sight of the small red stocking swinging slightly to and fro in the breath of the fire; but it died away on the instant, for the child had slipped to the floor and knelt there by the old man’s knee, her face hidden in her chubby hands. Perhaps in the intense stillness she missed the voice that generally guided hers, for there was a moment of hesitation on her part; then she began to pray aloud, halting over the words:
“Jesus, tender shepherd, hear me;
Bless thy little lamb to-night,
In the darkness be thou near me,
Keep me safe till morning light.
Let my sins be all forgiven,
Bless the friends I love so well,
Take me when I die to heaven,
There for ever with thee to dwell.”
She paused, a moment: “And please, God, take care of muvver, and uncle, and far-away daddy, and make Betty a good girl f’rever and ever. Amen.”
It was very still all around; and usually when she finished her prayers a soft cheek was laid against her own, while a soft voice echoed, “Amen,” and that meant “my heart wants it to be exactly so!” Now, however, no one spoke. Betty glanced wonderingly about as she rose to her feet, a trifle dazed and even frightened; but such grave, quiet, kind faces looked back at her that swiftly she dropped to her knees again with another petition: “God bless ev’rybody, an’ most speshilly Santa Claus.”
“Amen,” said old Jerome, in the pause that followed.
A bed had been hastily constructed in the warmest corner, out of the best materials the camp afforded, and thither Jerome carried the child. She nestled down drowsily while he tucked the covering about her; but his was an alien touch, and through the room there suddenly sounded a low, wailing cry:
“Muvver—oh! muvver—”
“There, Honey; there, Blossom—” the man’s voice broke, the hand that soothed was clumsy and old, and it trembled—“there, Honey—”
The men sat breathless—waiting, dreading to hear the cry again; but moment after moment passed, and it did not come. There was one little sob, then the dream-fairy stooped with her comfort.
How quiet the room was! And this was Christmas Eve—the time when each man was to do a stunt for the amusement of his fellows and the glory of himself. Generally on this occasion the Lord of Misrule held high carnival,—the flowing bowl was like a perpetual fountain, and laughter, shouting, and horse-play abounded on every side. There was rum in plenty since Terry had not failed them, but no effort was made to secure it; desire of that kind was dead, it seemed. They were content to sit there listening to the soft rise and fall of the child’s breath; the land of dreams, into which she had slipped, open to them also. And though it was so different from those other Christmas Eves, it was far from being dull. Into each heart there had crept a soft glow, which did not come from the blazing logs, and which no grog, no matter how skilfully blended, could have given, for once again the presence of one of God’s little ones made holy a humble place.