There were no landmarks discernible. Terry would have recognized certain ones, as would also some of the lumbermen; but to Shawe, who was a stranger, the whole country was unfamiliar; all he could do, therefore, was to lessen the distance step by step, knowing that while he kept the road he could not miss his destination. Yet he never lost heart, nor was he particularly tired. As boy and man, much of his time had been spent in the open. He was used to hardships, rough weather, and great exertion; the present undertaking seemed slight compared to others he had known.
Presently the white light of early dawn crept faintly up,—little Peep o’ Day he’s called,—a tiny fellow, truly, to be sent out to fight the darkness, and yet so persistent and undaunted that every moment he glowed more confidently at his task, and grew bigger and bigger with his efforts. The moon had looked scornfully at the coming of such an adversary; but now she paled visibly, and called in her routed army of moonbeams, while below,—the sleeping world laughed here and there at the contest, stirring out of its slumbers. As soon as his duties were accomplished, the little champion stole away, losing himself in the brightness that filled the sky, and made it and the land look like tinted silver; but nobody missed him, for the morning was at hand. There was a gorgeous, rosy flush along the east melting into purple, out of which the sun came up like a wonderful flower, opening slowly, first pink, then yellow, then red—and it was Christmas Day!
Shawe’s eyes gladdened at the sight, though he did not pause; he couldn’t—oh! now less than ever—now, he must hurry—hurry. Back in the shantymen’s hut the little child was already waking, he knew, and her glee was filling the house; but in her home others were waking, too,—they had not slept,—and listening in vain for the music of her laughter. He must hurry! So he kept on; but somehow, though he was beginning to be very tired, the going was much easier. Joy comes with the morning, and new hope; all the doubts and fears of the night disappear; they are some of the foes little Peep o’ Day vanquishes so triumphantly. Shawe couldn’t feel despondent in that beautiful world while the still morning brightened around him, especially when every step brought him nearer his goal. He laughed like a boy, and shouted out “Merry Christmas!” though there was no one by to answer his greeting; but the clear cold air bore it wide, and it helped to swell the chorus going up all over the earth.
He ran a few paces, so wonderfully light-hearted had he grown, and flung out his arms, clapping them against his body to warm himself; then he sobered down—outwardly. Nobody would ever have supposed that the tall, furclad figure with head bent a trifle, and only a bit of his face visible between his big cap and high collar was the bearer of joyful news. For one thing, he was walking quite stolidly, and your happy messengers are always winged; and for another, he was looking neither to left nor right. Wasn’t he?—Then why did he start suddenly, and throw back his head, laughing up again at the sky? Why?—Because just in front of him there was a house,—an ugly, squat little house, the glass in its windows twinkling in the sun. He drew nearer, and his heart, that had almost instantly rushed into his throat, fell back to its proper place with a most discouraging thump. The house seemed uninhabited,—deserted,—as if the people who had lived there had grown tired of being so far from the settlement, and had gone back to be with their kind, perhaps to stay there always, or at least over this day of festivity. It was impossible to associate a merry Christmas with this sober, grown-up abode. A closer approach, however, revealed a small thread of smoke issuing from the chimney; but otherwise, the general air of dreariness about the place—its loneliness, its empty, staring windows—chilled Shawe more than the winter night had done.
He went quickly up to the door, over snow that had been tracked by the passing of many feet; there were footprints everywhere,—great marks of a man’s boot, and the smaller ones of a woman’s or a girl’s shoe. The sight turned him a little giddy. Was this his goal—could his happy news be spoken here? He tried to shout, but his voice seemed frozen in his throat; he fell to trembling. He—he could not speak. He tried again, choking out a faint sound. There was no sign from the silent house that his call had been heard,—no stir, no movement of life. He flung himself against the door, and battered it with his fists. The waiting seemed like eternity to him; then his hand sought the knob, turned it, and the door flew wide. He stared half dazed into the narrow passage-way with the stairs climbing at one side; all the light seemed out in the world behind him; the place was dim and chill. For a moment he paused, then his voice sounded through the silence.
“Halloo! Halloo! Is a little child missing here?”
There was a quick sound of running feet overhead, an opening door, and a woman’s scream.
“Uncle—Uncle, have you—”
The cry went up from below:
“Is a little child missing here?”