He sat in front of the fire brooding absently. He had been alone all
day--ever since John left in the early morning. The boy was coming back
tonight. He had said that he would come--but that Simeon must not wait
for him; he must go to bed as usual. It was late now, but Simeon in
front of the fire waited impatiently.... A strange loneliness was on
him. Outside the snow had been falling fitfully all day. The ground
was covered with still whiteness. Across the waste of snow he heard a
distant clock strike softly and far away--eight--nine--ten--and still he
waited, brooding there by the fire. He wanted to see some one--to touch
a friendly hand--before he fell into the deep sleep that would cut him
off. A strange yearning toward his fellowmen had come upon him in the
last days. The child’s words followed him wistfully--“We must e’en love
’em,” he whispered to himself, wondering at the strange tugging at his
heart--Tiny cords seemed to reach out from him, threading their way,
spreading wide-seeking men and women.
He rose and paced the little room. He was not the man who had entered it
ten weeks ago--broken, helpless in weakness. His step on the floor was
firm and the hand that reached out to the tongs was steady in its grip.
He readjusted a log in the fireplace and replaced the tongs. Then he
stood looking down at the fire. He had grown fond of the flames--leaping
there. He would miss them when he went back to his office--and the cold
town house. He glanced about the little room affectionately.
... The boy had filled it with love and thoughtfulness from the first
day. It was sweet now with pine and spruce and hemlock--fastened
everywhere--running along the walls and heaped in corners. The boy had
brought it in from the woods for Christmas Day. The scent of it was like
the woods themselves--Something mysterious and deep was in the room. The
woods were in the room. The man breathed deep and looked around him....
How he would miss it all.... But his work was waiting... and he was
ready. He stretched out an arm straight from the shoulder and looked
with quiet pride at the hand. It did not quiver, by a breath, from
its place. The arm dropped at his side.... He was ready... almost. The
shadow flickered across his face. It retreated to his eyes and crouched
... waiting. He sat down before the andirons and looked defiantly into
the hot coals.... Some senseless, half-crazed words mumbled at him....
He shrugged his shoulder.... He would not hear them. The firm hand had
clinched itself on his knee.... A face grew out of the fire, red-eyed
and old and imbecile. It swung before his gaze full of hatred and
leering malice, and the clinched hand lifted itself. ... The face was
fading, line by line, in the flickering light. The mumbled words grew
faint. They sank to a whisper... and died away. ... It was the voice of
the child--clear and low, “We must e’en forgi’e ’em.”
He sank hack, wiping the heads from his forehead. He stared before
him--seeking a way out.... He had offered the man money.... He had
given him the farm, free of rent--and it was a good farm, they said--the
Bardwell farm--Was it not enough?... He brooded on it, sitting there.
The loneliness outside crept into the room.... The snow had ceased to
fall, and through the uncurtained window he caught a glimpse of light
shining. He got up and went to the window and looked out. The white
clouds seemed to be being drawn across the sky by unseen hands; beyond
them the stars shone clear. The snowy landscape glowed faint beneath
them.... Suddenly he uttered an exclamation and turned away. He crossed
quickly to the door and threw it open and stood peering out.
A little figure was coming up the path, nodding and blowing--Her curls
were afloat and her little face glowed in the light from the door.
“I ’m coming,” she panted heavily, “I ’ve got here.”
“I should think you had.” His voice was stern. But he had gathered her
in his arms, holding her close. She struggled a little and he set her
down. “I ’m wet,” she announced--“I’m most wet fru, I guess.”
He found some old underclothing of John’s and took off the wet
things, holding them up, one by one, to the light and looking at her
reproachfully. She had come apparently in her nightdress, with the
addition of an extra shirt, one stocking, one legging, a pair of
overshoes and her little fur coat and cap.
“I could n’t find my Fings,” she explained, “not all of my fings--in the
dark.”
“What did you come for?” asked Simeon severely.
Her rosy happiness precluded sentiment--and kindness.
She glanced at the glowing fire and then at his face. She looked down at
her pink toes, peeping from below John’s drawers--The drawers wrinkled
grotesquely on the fat legs and she tried to hold them up a little as
she approached him, humbly.... Simeon was angry--She could see it from
the tail of her eye, as she drew nearer with downcast head. “I wanted to
see Santa Claus,” she said. She had come very close now and she put out
a fat hand, resting it on his knee.
He bent a little toward her. “You should have waited till tomorrow,
child. Don’t you know I shall have to take you back--”
She lifted a stricken face.
“--in the cold and snow,” went on Simeon unheeding.
Her lip quivered. With a bound she had buried her face in his
breast.--“Don’t take me, Cinnamon!” she wailed--“Please don’t take
me--back!”
“But your grandfather and grandmother will worry--”
She lifted a reassuring, streaming face, “They don’t _know_ about me,”
she sobbed, “I am sound asleep.” She snuffed a little and fumbled in the
capacious folds of John’s undershirt for a handkerchief.
Simeon produced his and she accepted it meekly. She wiped her cheeks
with it and stowed it away. “I peeked--” she said, “in the door and they
was asleep--both of ’em--and Gran’ther was a-snorin’--”
“Suppose they wake up,” said Simeon.
She looked at him piteously. “Santa Claus can’t come to our house,” she
said. Her lip trembled.
“Why not?”
“He can’t get in.”
“Oh.”
“They ’ve shut up the chimbley.” She moved a fat hand toward the
fireplace--“I cried about it,” she explained, “and then I went to
sleep--I prayed too, but that did n’t do any good,” she threw in. “And
then I waked up in the dark and ’membered you, and that’s how I come.”
She nestled to him.
His arms were close around her. “You shall stay till the clock strikes
twelve--that’s when he comes--”
She nodded sagely.
“And then I ’ll carry you home.”
She sank back with a little sigh of content. The pink toes cuddled
themselves in the warm folds and the moist eyes rested dreamily on the
coals.
Simeon, holding her in his arms, had a sense of life--its goodness and
fullness. The loneliness had fled from the little room. It was filled
with love, and the world outside was full of friendliness--It held them
close.
The child stirred a little. “We did n’t hung up my stocking,” she said
drowsily.
Simeon looked down at the stocking steaming with faint warmth from the
fire. “It ’s too wet,” he said.
She roused herself and sat up--“Don’t I have no stockings?” she demanded.
He hesitated. Then he got up and brought one of his own and suspended
it from the corner of the shelf.
She surveyed it with dubious content. A little question flitted, and she
raised an anxious, startled face. “He might fink it was yours,” she
said.
“We ’ll tell him,” said Simeon, “the minute he comes.”
“_I ’ll_ tell him.” The eyes had flashed wide. They shone dizzily--the
little hands clasped themselves--“_I ’ll_ tell him,” she whispered.
“All right.”
She sat very straight, her gaze fixed on the exact spot where he should
come.... Her shoulders drooped a little, but she caught them at it and
shook them sternly. Then the eyes blinked--once--twice, and the brown
curls nodded. The watching figure was sinking inch by inch into the
great folds that enwrapped it. She lifted a heavy, dreamy face
to Simeon’s--“I can’t keep--awake--Cinnamon,” she breathed--very
wistful--with little jerks between.
“Never mind, dear.” He laid a hand on the bending head. “Go to sleep. I
’ll wake you when he comes.”
With a deep sigh, the head sank against the strong shoulder. The
firelight played across the little figure in its clumsy garments; it
touched the sleeping face and tipped the nodding curls.
Simeon watched it, the world in his heart speaking low.