"No! no!" cried the cripple, her distress increasing momentarily. "It's gone, sir! The look in that man's face comes back to me, and I know now what it meant. Oh! he must have a hard heart, to rob a cripple woman of her one pleasure, and on Christmas Eve!"
She flung her hands apart with a wild gesture, but the next moment controlled herself and spoke quietly but rapidly. "I am ashamed to trouble you, sir, but if you'll take down the bags I'll empt 'em as careful as I can. I wouldn't trouble you if I could help myself."
"I—I'm afraid I can't stop!" muttered Calvin; and he hung his head as he spoke, for a dry voice was saying in his ear, "Put this straight to yourself; are you running a candy route or an orphan asylum?"
"Oh! if Mittie May would only come!" cried the lame woman. "I'll have to trouble you, sir; it won't take you long."
Calvin mumbled something about calling again.
"No!" cried Miss Fidely. "There'd be no use in your calling again; that's all I can save in a year, and there's no more—"
She stopped short, and the blood rushed into her thin face.
"No!" she said after a pause. "I can't take the burial money, even for the children. Oh! you kind, good man, take down the bags, and take your candy back!"
"I've got to see to my hoss!" cried Calvin irritably. "Hear him hollerin'? Jest wait a half a minute—" he sneaked out of the door, closed it carefully behind him, and bolted for his sleigh. He snatched the nose-bag from Hossy's nose, the robe from his back; clambering hastily in, he cast a guilty glance around him, and saw—Mittie May, standing a few paces off, staring at him round-eyed.
"Here!" he cried. "You tell her I ain't feelin' real well, and I've got to get home. Tell her—tell her my name's Santy Claus, and my address is the North Pole. And—look here! tell her Merry Christmas and Happy New Year, and the same to you! Gitty up, hossy! gitty up!" and laying his whip over the astonished flanks of the brown horse, Calvin Parks fled down the road as if Blücher and the Prussians were after him.