“Gi’e her to me,” said Tomlinson again.
The man made no reply, but the child reached up a sleepy hand and slipped it about his neck. “I love Cinnamon,” she said drowsily.
Then the Scotchman came nearer. The bony hand did not lift itself from his side and there was no softening of the grim face—“The Lord do unto ye as ye have done unto me and mine, Simeon Tetlow,” he said solemnly.
He reached out his arms for the child and the man surrendered her to them—gently, that the sleeping lids might not wake. The old Scotchman gathered her in, close—the folds of his great-coat wrapped protectingly about her. Then, his eyes bent hungrily upon her, without a backward look, he went out into the night.
Simeon Tetlow watched him go, with quiet smile. His hands had dropped to his sides.
Thoughts played across the thin face—gleams of light and humor and gentleness. He lifted his head, with a quick glance about the fragrant room. The fire had died down, but a soft light glowed everywhere. He sat down holding out his hands to the warmth, the quiet smile still resting on his face and the shadow in the eyes fading before it, flickering away to its place in the night. The eyes shone with swift, new light; it played upon the face as it bent to the coals—the intent, human eyes gazing at something there.... Slowly the vision lifted itself—shining rails gleamed upon the night. They lay upon the land, the silvery tracings branching left and right. A white light shone from them. Simeon Tetlow, looking with rapt gaze, saw a new world. The curse could not touch him here.... It could never touch him again. Something cold and hard had snapped at a word. The forgiveness he had begged of the stern Scotchman had come to him... . There had been no curse... only the hardness and bitterness in his heart—that would not say “Forgive.” The word had lingered at the door of his lips through weeks of pain and the darkness—wandering rebellion, sick fancies.... “Forgive me, Hugh.” He had said it—low and humble, unawares, out of the depths... and suddenly he had stood erect. “Forgive me, Hugh.” He whispered it again, looking into the deep coals. ... Troops of faces filed before him and he stretched out dumb hands to them. The coals deepened and spread, and the great road lay among them. His eyes rested on it wistfully. A still, clear light was on the country-side.... Miles of wheat and corn, great tracks of prairie, mountains of ore—lighted by it. But his eye swept them as a bird sweeps river and wood and plain in its homing flight.... The light was falling on the faces of men and women and children and the faces were turned to him—waiting. The coals had died to a tiny spark. He rose and put on fresh wood and the flames leaped and ran up the green walls. He fell to musing again.... The dream held him.... Life opened.... Softly the bells were ringing in that other world.... Little peals that broke and rang—great swinging bells. He bent his head to the sound. It grew, and died away to lightest touch and rang again, clear and fresh.... It was nearer now... nearer—He turned his head. The sound had stopped—at the very door—The boy had come!
Before he could rise from his place, the door swung open to the freshness of the night and the boy was at his side.... “Merry Christmas, sir.” He bent swiftly to the lifted, smiling face—“You are better,” he cried, bending nearer in the flickering light, doubting and eager.
“I am well, John!” He was on his feet, both hands outstretched to the boy.
They stood thus, the fire leaping on their faces, their hands clasped. ... Then they drew apart smiling.... The man moved his hand toward the dusky, fragrant room. “I am ready to go,” he said.
The young face lighted. “We need you, sir. We need you the worst way!”