It was off the cross-gun of young Paul. He had seen everything in the story and had taken aim at the said Indian just in the nick of time.
She read, also, the old sweet story of the coming of the Christ
Child.
"Some say it was a night like this," said she, as the story ended.
Paul had listened, his thin, sober face glowing.
"I'll bet Santa Claus was good to him," said he. "Brought him sleds an' candy an' nuts an' raisins an' new boots an' everything."
"Why do you think so?" asked his mother, who was now reading intently.
"'Cos he was a good boy. He wouldn't cry if he had to fill the wood box; would he, mother?"
That query held a hidden rebuke for his brother Tom.
"I do not know, but I do not think he was ever saucy or spoke a bad word."
"Huh!" said Tom, reflectively; "then I guess he never had no mustard plaster put on him."