and faced Abner Sawyer, his eyes blazing with heartbroken
disappointment through tear-wet lashes.

"Uncle Ab," he choked, "it--it was a Chris'mus s'prise fur you an' Aunt
Judith." A great tear rolled slowly down upon the tippet. "I--I seen a
book on fancy carpenterin' an' I--I didn't have no money an'--an' a
thimble. It ain't silver, but it's 'mos' as good." And then Jimsy lost
his moorings with a sob and cried his heart out upon the sleeve of Abner
Sawyer. "I--I got the book buttoned under my coat," he blurted after a
while, "an', Uncle Ab, I'm awful sorry 'bout the door-bells. All the
fellus do it home--"

[Illustration]

Abner Sawyer would have been less than human if the boy's tragedy had
not touched him.

"Why," he asked huskily, "why did you wish to give me a Christmas
present?"

[Illustration]

"Because," cried Jimsy passionately, "yer so awful good to me an' Stump,
an' so's Aunt Judith. An' I thought mebbe ye'd never had nobuddy ever
give ye a present an' mean it like I did or--"

"Or what, Jimsy?"

"Ye'd feel diffrunt 'bout Christmas."

The first citizen took the reins himself, tucked Jimsy in beneath the
fur robe and drove home in silence, conscious only that the world was
awry and he hated the Village Conscience. Nor was he quite himself even
after supper was done and Jimsy, a little tearful still in his
disappointment, safe in bed.

"Abner--" began Aunt Judith from her chair by the fire.

"Yes?" said Mr. Sawyer coldly. He wished Judith would not talk. She
rarely did. He was tired and upset and probing desperately within for
some remnant of the cold complacence of a week ago.

"The minister was here to-day. He--he told me how Mrs. Dorgan took Jimsy
in from the street. She--drinks. He--hasn't--a real--home. The minister
would like--to--to find one for him."

[Illustration]

Jimsy again! He must fling away his chain now or feel it clank.

"That," said Abner Sawyer resentfully, "is of no interest to me."

There was pitiful, hard-wrung bravery in Aunt Judith's face. Only a
passionate surge of feeling could have swept away the silence and
repression of the years. Only a woman's emotion, wild and maternal for
all its starving, inevitable as the law of God, could have leaped a
barrier so fixed and unrelenting.

"Abner," she said desperately. "I--I want to keep Jimsy. I--I can't
_bear_ to see him go--"

"Judith!" There was more in the single word of course than Aunt Judith
could know. There