Baby Burnham was at the window. “Thanty Kauth!” she cried. “Look, papa! Look!”
“What does the child see?” said Mr. Burnham, going to the window. “Sure enough, baby. Do come here, my dear. What fantastical establishment is this coming up our driveway? It’s a bower of evergreens on runners, and an old man with a white beard and a white coat all trimmed up with greens sits up there driving. He seems to be shaking with laughter, too. What can it mean?”
Just then the wood sled came alongside the porch, and, suddenly, out from between the garlanded sled stakes four heads were quickly thrust and four voices shouted:
“Merry Christmas!”
“The children! Bless their hearts!”
In a minute more, father and mother and baby and the jolly travelers were all very much mixed up on the porch, and there was a deal of hugging and kissing and laughing and crying, while Farmer Ross on his own hook, or rather on his own wood sled, was laughing softly, and crying a little, too. What made him cry I wonder? Presently Mr. Burnham said:
“But, Will, you haven’t made us acquainted yet with your charioteer.”
“It is Mr. Ross, father. He took us into his house on Washington Mountain last night and treated us like princes, and this morning he has brought us home, and helped us in the heartiest way to carry out our fun.”
“Mr. Ross, we are greatly your debtors,” said Mr. Burnham. “You have relieved us of a sore anxiety, and brought us a great pleasure.”
“Wall, I dunno,” said the farmer. “I didn’t like to think o’ these ’ere children bein’ kep’ away from hum on Christmas Day; ’n’ ef I’ve helped ’em any way to hev a good time, why,—God bless ’em!—I don’t think there’s any better thing an old man like me could be doin’ on sech a day as this!”