"Why isn't it true, lass?" inquired her father. "It's likelier to be true than not."
"Because I made the same mistake myself," said Nancy.
"Well, it would take a good deal to persuade me that my little meeting with that slippery rascal turned out to be a mistake!" exclaimed the gamekeeper, as he set down his cup and smiled with satisfaction. "When did you meet him, little woman?"
"Last night."
"And who do you fancy it was, dearie?" asked the old grandmother.
"I know who it was, Gran. It was Mr. Santa Claus!" As they smiled still, she ran and fetched his presents she was anxious to show.
And Nancy knew she was right, and that it was Santa Claus, for nothing more was heard of the poacher Tom Grollins for ever so long, and every one Nancy asked seemed to know all about Santa Claus having been on his rounds that night—even those who hadn't seen him.
She ran and fetched his presents she was anxious to show