d exultingly into the eyes yielded so abjectly to his"

* * * * *

BOOK ONE

The Age of Fable

[Illustration]

THE SEEKER

BOOK ONE--THE AGE OF FABLE

CHAPTER I

HOW THE CHRISTMAS SAINT WAS PROVED

The whispering died away as they heard heavy steps and saw a line of light
under the shut door. Then a last muffled caution from the larger boy on
the cot.

"Now, remember! There ain't any, but don't you let _on_ there ain't--else
he won't bring you a single thing!"

Before the despairing soul on the trundle-bed could pierce the vulnerable
heel of this, the door opened slowly to the broad shape of Clytemnestra.
One hand shaded her eyes from the candle she carried, and she peered into
the corner where the two beds were, a flurry of eagerness in her face,
checked by stoic self-mastery.

At once from the older boy came the sounds of one who breathes labouredly
in deep sleep after a hard day. But the littler boy sat rebelliously up,
digging combative fists into eyes that the light tickled. Clytemnestra
warmly rebuked him, first simulating the frown of the irritated.

"Now, Bernal! Wide awake! My days alive! You act like a wild Indian's
little boy. This'll _never_ do. Now you go right to sleep this minute,
while I watch you. Look how fine and good Allan is." She spoke low, not to
awaken the one virtuous sleeper, who seemed thereupon to breathe with a
more swelling and obtrusive rectitude.

"Clytie--now--_ain't_ there any Santa Claus?"

"Now what a sinful question _that_ is!"

"But _is_ there?"

"Don't he bring you things?"

"Oh, there _ain't_ any!" There was a sullen desperation in this, as of one
done with quibbles. But the woman still paltered wretchedly.

"Well, if you don't lie down and go to sleep quicker'n a wink I bet you
anything he won't bring you a single play-pretty."

There came an unmistakable blare of triumph into the busy snore on the
cot.

But the heart of the skeptic was sunk. This evasion was more
disillusioning than downright confession. A moment the little boy regarded
her, wholly in sorrow, with big eyes that blinked alarmingly. Then came
his last shot; the final bullet which the besieged warrior will sometimes
reserve for his own destruction. There could no longer be any pretense
between them. Bravely he faced her.

"Now--you just needn't try to keep it from me any longer! I _know_ there
ain't any--" One tensely tragic seco