'And we all welcome you, old friend,' said Lois, the tall, graceful maiden, holding both his hands. 'We have so much to tell you, and Roger and I——'
She did not finish, but Roger put his hand proudly on her shoulder, and their two faces told the rest. So it was a very joyous meeting.
And on that evening Wandering Willie told them the story of his life.
He had never told that story before, and no one will hear it from Willie's lips again.
It came about in this way.
There were none but the young ones left with him. Most of them were gathered round the fire at Willie's feet. The youngest, little Cecily, had climbed upon his knee. Long ago—at least what seemed long ago to her—she had climbed up into his heart. She put her arm round his neck, and had been telling him 'secrets' in soft half-whispers. A little way off Roger and Lois sat in the window, and talked together in low voices—most likely they had 'secrets' too. The old man often looked towards them. It may be that something in Roger's attitude, or in the downcast face of Lois, brought back a dim picture to him through the far off years. He smiled, but he sighed too, as he smoothed little Cecily's fair hair. She had got his big silver watch in both her hands, and was listening to its ticking and to what Willie said about it.
The children on the hearth were forming wishes for the coming year.
'And I wish,' said one, gravely and clearly, 'that I was big, and very useful.'
The others were quiet for a moment, and then they laughed, and their laughter rang musically through the old kitchen.
Willie smiled at the little speaker, and went on with what he was saying to Cecily.