It was very cold, and the disappointed man shivered as he prepared to retrace his steps to his own quarters. Suddenly he heard a noise in the room beyond the fireboard. It was the sound of a child sobbing quietly to itself. In another moment a heavy, drunken step sounded on the bare floor.
“Are ye goin’ to stop cryin’, Moll, or will I give ye the stick agin?” demanded a woman’s harsh voice. “What’s the matter now?”
“I won’t—any—more,” he could hear the child answer. “I don’t—mean to. Only I was thinkin’ it was Christmas to-morrow, and I wouldn’t—get anything,—mother used to”—
“Stop that!” warningly.
It was evidently hard work to control the sobs, now. Old Claus clenched his fist, and resolved that if he heard the sound of a blow, that fireboard would go down.
There was silence for a minute. Then the woman staggered off, muttering: “Don’t let me hear any more from ye the night. Go to sleep, d’ ye hear? You must be off with yer basket agin in the mornin’.”
Five minutes later a singular sight might have been seen in front of the big house. It was nothing less than Old Claus himself, clad in his shaggy fur coat, setting forth through the darkness and snow, which was now falling fast.
