At last they examined the book.
It was inscribed at the beginning with the miser’s name, in a little crabbed handwriting. And there were entries made every Christmas Eve, beginning with Christmas, 1830. Each Christmas there was a larger sum to record, until at last in 1898 was entered £3,100.
“And it’s all yours, uncle,” said Danny, smacking Bill on the back.
Bill’s heart was too full to speak, at first; but Bridget had plenty to say—all that they would do with it—all that this would mean for the boy’s future and their old age.
. . . . . . . .
The stranger joined them at breakfast.
“Didn’t I tell you he was Father Christmas or a Holy Angel?” said Bridget. “See what he has brought us.”
“Nay, ’tis the lad,” said the ancient stranger. “I said ’e was a fairy. Or, maybe, ’twas the hobgoblin—he always brings luck; and the owl who flew out of the tree was him, as likely as not.”
Bill was a pious man, not given to belief in such things.
“No,” he said, “’twas the Holy Child, bringing us a Christmas gift, for love of the boy here, who was willing to give up his happy Christmas at home to come and cheer up his poor old uncle.”