After the trapper had gone David stood a minute thinking before he went back to his breakfast. So this was a white winter. And Johanna had said that about as often as a white winter the fairy raths opened on Christmas Eve—just for that night. Somehow the fairy must have known this would happen; and he had gone back to Ireland, back to his rath, a locked-out fairy no longer.
There was a broad smile of happiness on David’s face as he took his seat at the table again.
“Ye certainly look pleased with your present,” teased Barney. “What did he bring ye now—just a squirrel’s skin?”
“No, not just! Wait until to-night and I’ll tell you and Johanna one of your own Irish stories. Only this one will have American improvements.” And David nodded his head mysteriously after Johanna’s own fashion.
It was then that the telephone rang and Barney answered it. If there had been a puzzled smile on his face before, when the trapper came, there was a veritable labyrinth of expressions now as he came back to the kitchen. There was a tangle of mystery, astonishment, delight, incredulity, and excitement; and even Johanna herself could not guess what lay at the heart of it all.
“Speak up, Barney, man,” she cried. “What has happened ye?”
And Mr. Peter slapped him on the back and thundered at him: “Wake up, sir! You look as if you’d been dreaming about fairies!”
“Maybe I have,” chuckled Barney; then he sobered. “No, ’twas the station-agent that ’phoned. He says the wee lad’s Christmas present has come from across the water, and he’s sending it up this minute by the stage-driver.”
“Is it as large as that?” gasped David in surprise.
“Aye, it’s a good size.” And Barney chuckled harder than ever.