head on one side, stood
for some time regarding it. Then he slipped something in its worn
saddle-pocket. Last, he lifted and settled the thing under his arm.

"I donno but I might as well walk around by Mary Chavah's house," he
thought. "I needn't stay long...."

* * * * *

At Mary Chavah's house the two big parlours, the hall, the stairs, the
dining room, even the tiny bedroom with the owl wall paper, were filled
with folk come to welcome the little boy. And on the parlour table, set
so that he should see it when first he entered, blazed Ellen Bourne's
little tree. The coffee was hot on the stove, good things were ready on
the table, and the air was electric with expectation, with the
excitement of being together, with the imminent surprise to Mary, and
with curiosity about the little stranger from Idaho.

"What'll we all say when he first comes in?" somebody asked.

"Might say 'Merry Christmas,'" two or three suggested.

"Mercy, no!" replied shocked voices, "not to Mary Chavah, especially."

But however they should say it, the time was quick with cheer.

At quarter to eight the gate clicked. The word passed from one to
another, and by the time a step sounded on the porch the rooms were
still, save for the whispers, and a voice or two that kept unconsciously
on in some remote corner. But instead of the door opening to admit Mary
and her little boy, a hesitating knock sounded.

Those nearest to the door questioned one another with startled looks,
and one of them threw the door open. On the threshold stood Affer, the
telegraph operator, who thrust in a very dirty hand and a yellow
envelope.

"We don't deliver nights," he said, "but I thought she'd ought to have
this one. I'm going home to wash up, and then I'll be back," he added,
and left them staring at one another around the little lighted tree.

XIII

Before they could go out to find Mary, as a dozen would have done, she
was at the threshold, alone. She seemed to understand without wonder why
they were there, and with perfect naturalness she turned to them to
share her trouble.

"He hasn't come," she said simply.

Her face was quite white, and because they usually saw her with a scarf
or shawl over her head, she looked almost strange to them, for she wore
a hat. Also she had on an unfamiliar soft-coloured wrap that had been
her mother's and was kept in tissues. She had dressed carefully to go to
meet the child.