“Are you Santa Claus?” she demanded with bated breath.
He looked back at her, taking in, even in his dull fashion, the delight that widened her eyes and shrilled her voice. Suppose he told the truth—what then? How the disappointment would cloud the upturned radiant face at the commonplace statement that he was only Terry O’Connor. He hesitated an inappreciable moment; then, because he had been born under a dancing star and loved a jest, he answered her question.
The child’s laugh rang out on the air in happy triumph, waking the echoes. The horses stirred a little and their dull old bells gave forth a low sound, but it wasn’t music compared to that which filled Terry’s ears. He took up the reins reluctantly. She pressed nearer, putting out a small, resolute hand as if she were one of those old-time, fierce-browed highwaymen and meant to stop his further progress.
“Ah, please don’t,” she protested, in a tone no knight of the road would ever have employed, “please—” Then with a little rush, as if the words were eager to escape: “ I was so sure it was truly you, so sure. I saw you when you were way off—just a teeny, weeny speck—and first I thought maybe it was Pierre, or p’r’aps the doctor, or Mr. Higgins, and I came down here ’cause they always say ‘How are you?’ as they pass—they’re such noticing big men! I couldn’t see very clear, you know, with the sun shining one way and the snow sending back baby sparkles the other; but everything seemed so happy, and when I heard you singing, I knew why—even your bells sounded glad—glad! I just could hardly wait. I’ve thought so much about you always—I knew you’d come some day. Where—where are you going now, sir?”
“Home,” answered Terry, honestly enough.
She cast a quick glance at the north along the road he must travel, and which, to her fancy, led henceforth to an enchanted world; then her eyes sought his face again.
“Oh!” she cried breathlessly, “must you go quite—quite yet?”
At the possibility of his departure, the joy that had been written all over her confident little person seemed suddenly to take wing, leaving her dejected and forlorn. The pleasure had been so brief,—a mere flash of brightness that was over almost as soon as it had come.
Terry hesitated; every moment he lingered imperilled the fulfilment of his wager, for his horses were old, and their best was apt to be very slow indeed. He could not afford to loiter. “Before twelve av the clock, Christmas Eve,” Narcisse had taunted him. But the little child! It seemed almost a sin to cheat her of this happiness. He must go, yet everything about her—drooping lips and saddened eyes—bade him stay. Then, filled with a desire to please her and, at the same time, not interfere with his own plans, he bent down.
“Come along wid me,” he suggested jocosely.