He unhooked a bag, and shook out the shining contents on to the rabbit
skin rug. The sovereigns gleamed and glinted in the lamplight. Bill and
Bridget stood speechless. Then Danny explained all that had happened.
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 _L_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."
"And to give his bed to an old, lonely stranger," added the old man.
Danny flushed. "No, no," he said, "it wasn't for my sake. But I do think
uncle is right about it being a Christmas present. I went to midnight
Mass to thank for it." Aunt Bridget kissed him for the twentieth time,
and Bill cleared his throat, which seemed rather husky.
"But what about the hobgoblin, really?" said Danny. "Grandad, here,
swears he saw him; and you see it was true about the Druids' Oak being a
wonderful tree."
Bill went to a big press in the corner of the room.
"I think I know who the hobgoblin was. Come here, son," he added.
Danny went to him, and behind the door of the cupboard Uncle Bill
arrayed him in an old black cloak and hood. "Now, hang a bag over your
shoulder, and hurry across the room, bent-up like, and see if grandad
don't think he's seeing his hobgoblin again," he said.
Danny obeyed, and the old man started up. "'Tis him, 'tis him!" he said,
"the very same."
They all laughed.
"My father," said Bill, "was a very small, thin, little old man, not
much bigger than Danny. 'Twas him you saw, fetching back his money on
Christmas Eve to count it, and enter it in his book."
The old man was nodding his head slowly.
"So, after all I've never seen a hobgoblin," he said. "I'm eighty year
old--I shall die afore I get another chance."
"Never mind, grandad," said Bridget, "ye'll be afther seeing the Angels
then, so it'll be all right."