"And will you nevah, nevah come back?"
"My God!" cried the man. "Never—perhaps never. Don't forget me, Alice, Hugh." And this time he kissed them again and went by and opened the door to the stairway.
"We thank you ever so much," said Hugh, and standing aside he waited for Alice to pass, having in his child-like ways something of the grave courtesy of the ancestors who looked down on him from the walls. Alice courtesied and the small cavalier, still with the old rapier in hand, bowed low. Kris stood at the door and listened to the patter of little feet upon the stair; then he closed it with noiseless care. In a few minutes he had put out the candles, resumed his cloak, and left the house. The snow no longer fell. The waning night was clearer, and to eastward a faint rosy gleam foretold the coming of the sun of Christmas. Kris glanced up at the long-windowed house and turning went slowly down the garden path.
Long before their usual hour of rising, the children burst into the mother's room. "You monkeys," she cried, smiling; "Merry Christmas to you! What is the matter?"
"Oh! he was here! he did come!" cried Alice.
"Khwis was here," said Hugh. "I did hear him in the night, and I told Alice it was Khwis, and she said it was a wobber, and I said it wasn't a wobber. And we went to see, and it was a man. It was Khwis. He did say so."
"What! a man at night in the house! Are you crazy, children?"
"And Hugh took grandpapa's sword, and—"
"Gweat-gwanpapa's," said Hugh, with strict accuracy.
"You brave boy!" cried the woman, proudly. "And he stole nothing, and, oh! what a silly tale."