"You can just hand over that pheasant"
"You can just hand me over that pheasant. Ah! it's you, is it? I know you, Tom Grollins, and I'll report you to the gamekeeper."
The poacher gazed at her stupidly for a moment. "Give you the blessed bird and be reported too, Missy? Come, that ain't 'ardly fair, is it? (Will yer lie down, Muffins?) Now look 'ere. If I give yer the bird, will y'promise not to say a word as it was Tom Grollins—on yer davey, now? Will y'promise, Missy?"
She nodded. Tom Grollins was not very strong of intellect, and he was a known coward, and as the sound of a carriage was heard close by, the bargain was hastily concluded; the pheasant was handed over without further parley on the undertaking of the promise—"No names."
The promise, of course, Nancy faithfully kept when she delivered to her father the bird she had demanded with such pluck and authority, and told him how she had got it. The gamekeeper laughed, remarking that he wouldn't press her, but could make a pretty shrewd guess if he chose. However, she was worth her weight in gold, he said, and he patted her on the head for a trump—and Nancy felt uncommonly proud. But she didn't quite understand what he meant when he said that terms such as she had made would not be quite approved of by the Lord Chancellor.
Then as Granny came in Nancy told of all she had seen, and of all the wonderful presents the tiny lady at the Grange was going to receive at Christmas, because she wanted them; and that a gentleman staying at the house called Mr. Santa Claus gave them, and knew what to get, because a bird—a parrot, she supposed—had heard and told him what the little lady wanted.
That night when Nancy was in bed she could think of nothing else but Santa Claus and the wonderful toys; and the thoughts were just beginning to get confused with a greatly envied skipping-rope and workbox, when she suddenly sat bolt upright in bed wide awake.
Her room was a tiny one leading off the kitchen, and in the moonlight she had just seen Tom Grollins pass by—this time with a full bag on his back, and the faithful Muffins was close at his heels.
"Well, I never did!" exclaimed Nancy, in her astonishment and vexation unconsciously quoting her grandmother; "I never did! Now what's to be done? Gran's no use—Dad's out. But Dad's sure to find that wicked poacher," she reflected, on hearing the clock strike nine: "he's in the forest, and can't be far." And she lay back, relieved at the thought that her father had suspiciously refused the invitation of a shabby, gaitered, and very doubtful sportsman, to drink Christmas in with mulled beer at the village tavern. She had heard her father remark afterwards that he wanted "to be within earshot of gunshot." So she wouldn't worry, for Tom wouldn't get the things after all.
After a time Nancy changed her mind. As in a dream, but not feeling a bit sleepy, she quickly donned her cloak, stealthily opened the kitchen door so as not to disturb the old lady, and hastened out into the night. Curiously enough, she didn't feel cold in the bleak air—and in her hurry she never even noticed she was without shoes or stockings.
In front of her was a man, and she quickened her pace. She soon overtook him—sooner than she expected, for dark clouds overshadowed the moon, and she was at his side before she knew it.
"Tom Grollins!" she exclaimed, breathless and indignant: "how dare you! I've caught you again!"
"I'm not Tom Grollins," replied her companion in a deep, manly voice, in which a funny chuckle seemed to rumble.
For a moment the child hesitated. It certainly didn't sound like Tom Grollins's whiny treble, but then—perhaps he was pretending, so as to put her off.
"Yes, you are," she retorted firmly. "Now, what are you doing here?"
"It's a secret."
"You're after poaching again. I shall report you to Dad. And," she added severely, "you've just got to give me this very minute all you've got in that bag."
"All in my bag? Softly, softly: wouldn't that be highway robbery, with threats?" answered the jolly voice, and with a laugh—"Oh, greedy!"
Nancy stopped and stared hard, but it was too dark for her to see him, as she had done from her bed. He had stopped too.
"Who are you, then?" she asked lamely.
"Santa Claus," came the reply.
"Santa Claus!" repeated the child in astonishment.
The dark cloud-wrack happened to part, and Nancy saw towering above her the dearest and most imposing old gentleman imaginable, with a large smiling face and long white beard. White curly hair fringed his holly-decked scarlet cap, and his long, loose, red coat revealed here and there glimpses of scarlet plush beneath. Instead of rabbits and pheasants, he was laden with the newest of toys; and as to Muffins, he was nowhere to be seen—unless he was that toy-dog dangling from the overflowing bag, and wearing a leather collar with bell attached, and a leather muzzle that ought to allay the fears of the most nervous.
"Who are you, then?"
"Yes, little woman, I am Santa Claus—himself!" he repeated, with his jolly chuckle.
"I—I—beg your pardon," stammered Nancy, quite confused.
"It's all right," he replied good-humouredly. "Now shall I see you home before I continue my rounds?"
"Oh, may I come with you?" The words had dropped out of her mouth before she could stop herself.
Santa Claus shook his head. "Come with me, indeed? I should think not! Come with me? 'Pon my word!" Then he hesitated and smiled, and said kindly, "Well, come along, dear. You're a good, brave little girl. But you must know I've never made such an exception before. However, it's so odd to find a child who doesn't know me—even such a little village mouse as you—that we must really make one another's acquaintance."
He drew Nancy under his cloak to keep her extra warm, and to hide her from view, and he showed her how she could peep out. Then he took her by the hand, and the quaint pair proceeded along the mysterious-looking forest until they came to the part Nancy loved best. There, heaps and heaps of fir-trees grew, the tall ones protecting the wee ones, and the wee ones doing their best to try and grow tall too.
Santa Claus stood still, and looked around, as if in preparation of some important matter. Nancy felt something was going to happen, and she peered up into the face of her guide.
"Father Christmas has come!" he proclaimed loudly at last.
And then what a change there was! The fir-trees all became Christmas-trees, lighted each one—big and little—with candles, blue or green, yellow or red, each burning with the same coloured light. And from the diamond-frosted branches hung toys innumerable. At the top of each tree stood triumphant a fairy-doll with wand outstretched.
Nancy clasped her hands with rapture at the sight. "Oh, Santa Claus!" was all she could exclaim.
He lifted her on to his shoulder, and let her gaze until she had gazed enough. Now, indeed, she realised what toys were—whence they came, and how they grew.
Then she felt he was carrying her away, and her heart beat with curiosity and excitement, for she knew Santa Claus was proceeding on his rounds to pay visits to all the sleeping children who deserved it, while she was clinging to his dear old neck, and would see all that went on.
The first visit was to Iris at the Grange, whither Santa Claus was already on his way. They entered the pretty bedroom, where the spoilt little lady was smiling in anticipation in her sleep; and the "dolly, pamberlator, watch, and titten with real scratches" (immovably asleep) were all produced as though by some conjuring trick from Santa Claus's basket or deep pockets, and duly placed to meet the child's eager glance on her waking.
"Mr. Santa Claus," whispered Nancy, who had been wondering all the time, "how did we get here?"
"Chimney!" he whispered back.
"Chimney?"
Santa Claus nodded.
This didn't make her much wiser, for to her knowledge she had never seen the inside of a chimney in her life; but she forgot to pursue the subject now that something more interesting was going on.
Iris had vanished, and a pale little boy lay asleep in a room above a flower shop.
"He doesn't care for toys," whispered Santa Claus; "he loves that pink geranium by his side." And a gaily painted watering-pot was placed next to his flowering possession. "How white in comparison with the blossom the suffering, pinched little face looks on the pillow!" thought Nancy; "he will be pleased." Before they left, Santa Claus filled the can with water from the cracked toilet jug.
In the large house across the way were sounds of bright music—a party was going on.
"I'm afraid it's too early to go there yet," said Santa Claus, consulting his great watch. "However, we'll go and see; it's really high time for all youngsters to be in bed." In the night-nursery were two cots. Both were empty. "I must call on my way back," he said.
Just then the door opened, and childish voices were heard shouting: "Santa Claus! We'll catch him if we're quick!"
And there was only just time for the two travellers to disappear before the lights were turned up and the owners of the cots rushed in.
"Nearly caught that time!" exclaimed Santa Claus, as they proceeded on their way (it was extraordinary how alert and agile he was for such an old and portly gentleman), and he burst out into a loud laugh, and only recovered from it as they entered a long room full of small beds. It was decorated with holly and mistletoe. A light burned at one end, where sat a pleasant-looking nurse half-screened in the corner by the fire.
Nancy followed Santa Claus's movements with breathless interest as he flitted to each little sleeping occupant of the hospital ward—for such it was—placing here a toy horse of skin and harness with a long wavy tail; there a lovely picture-book with a green cover, on which the title was printed in large gold letters.
Twice only did Nancy heave a little sigh, quickly repressed, and her eyes filled with longing: once when a skipping-rope was loosely tied round the clasped hands of a little girl who was convalescent, and was going to leave, as Santa Claus explained; and once again when, creeping on tiptoe, he placed under the chair of the dozing nurse a very smart workbox, with the name engraved on top.
Every now and then Santa Claus would linger to smooth the look of pain from a little suffering face into a smile, or touch with his cool palm a little fevered hand.
As she trotted round with him, tears of pity and happy sympathy filled Nancy's eyes, and she tried to give Santa Claus a good hug—only she couldn't reach half-way round—while he tenderly wiped those tears on his big cuff, and carried her off, a long way, to a very poor cottage. There they peeped round from behind the door.
Everything looked bright, and sounded happy too, and every now and again, amid the laughter and the chatter, the arrival of Santa Claus was gaily prophesied. Three little girls were dancing round three of those tiny decorated Christmas-trees Nancy had seen that eve, and their parents, looking on happily, echoed their exclamations of joy. She was surprised to see so much jollity in so poor a place; but Santa Claus didn't seem to be so—he merely muttered, "It's all right this year!" and withdrew with her the same way they had come.
"And now," remarked Santa Claus cheerily, "before I go back to the party children or do anything else I must visit all the other hospitals. I've brought you home because you must be very tired, little woman. I'm terribly busy to-night—half afraid I shan't get it over in time: just think of the disappointment if I don't! So good-night, Nancy! Pleasant dreams! A Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!"
And his kind face bent over her in bed, as it had over so many others that Christmas Eve; and as he pressed her hand he added, with a smile, "I've a terrible lot to do, and I mustn't forget anybody!"
The dawn heralded once again a Christmas Day, and when the sun peeped forth he awoke Nancy. She looked round, and uttered a cry of surprise and delight. For before her astonished eyes she seemed to see a little fairy-land all to herself. Grouped about her bed were a skipping-rope, a workbox—both handsomer than Janey's—and a little box besides. She couldn't believe they were real, so she felt them all over, and not only found they were quite real, but the little box when it was touched sent forth the most lovely, mysterious music.
"Dear, kind, darling Santa Claus!" exclaimed Nancy. Then she saw that beside them there was also a plum pudding with a Christmas card attached, from the new mistress of the Grange. What was puzzling was that on a chair close by hung three pairs of her father's new socks with a paper asking her to mark them; but they were marked already, and were full of good things to eat.
Never in all her nine years had Nancy had such a Christmas. After saying her morning prayers, she sat down at the table, where, with elbows outspread and her little tongue peeping out as she moved her pen, she wrote the following letter:—
"Dear Mr. Claus,—Thank you very much for those lovely presents: I like them very much. And thank you for the lovely time I had going about with you last night. I shall never forget it. Please forgive me for thinking you were the wicked poacher, Tom Grollins. I must now say good-bye.
"I send you 200 kisses (x x x etsetra).
And then she addressed it to him at the Grange.
When Nancy had stamped and posted it, her grandmother and her father came in to breakfast, and received Nancy's grateful thanks, for she wore a pretty new frock. Then she told them that as she had hurried back from the post-box, so as not to be late for breakfast, she had heard the head gardener say to the butler that Tom Grollins had been seen that night striding quietly along with a big bag well stuffed.
"But, Dad," continued his daughter with conviction, "it isn't true. I'm sure it's a mistake."
"Why isn't it true, lass?" inquired her father. "It's likelier to be true than not."
"Because I made the same mistake myself," said Nancy.
"Well, it would take a good deal to persuade me that my little meeting with that slippery rascal turned out to be a mistake!" exclaimed the gamekeeper, as he set down his cup and smiled with satisfaction. "When did you meet him, little woman?"
"Last night."
"And who do you fancy it was, dearie?" asked the old grandmother.
"I know who it was, Gran. It was Mr. Santa Claus!" As they smiled still, she ran and fetched his presents she was anxious to show.
And Nancy knew she was right, and that it was Santa Claus, for nothing more was heard of the poacher Tom Grollins for ever so long, and every one Nancy asked seemed to know all about Santa Claus having been on his rounds that night—even those who hadn't seen him.
She ran and fetched his presents she was anxious to show
MORNING
It might have been the middle of the night; but it wasn't—it was Guy Fawkes' Day, and eight o'clock on a foggy morning. The London square was more than usually hushed and mournful, except for a warning call or whistle as a van cautiously lumbered along, or blundered on to the pavement. The nursery fire did its best to look cheerful: the lights were all on too, showing up the bright pictures on the walls and the bright faces of the three children who were chattering gaily at the breakfast-table. And they all looked so smart! Alec and Frank in their best suits, and tiny Molly wore her prettiest white frock and her coral necklace, just as if she were going to a party.
They soon scrambled off their chairs, and Molly, standing on tiptoe, seized hold of a bunch of lilies tied up with ribbon that was on the side table, and each of her brothers eagerly possessed himself of a neat brown paper parcel.
It was Father's birthday. The occasion was always kept as a holiday, and the children were waiting for his call to summon them to his dressing-room.
"I think he must be fifty!" remarked Alec.
"I fink he's fifteen," said their little sister.
She spoke in a tone of conviction, accompanied by a toss of her short curls.
"Don't be silly, Mollikins," replied the boys with a laugh; but she said she was sure she was right.
"Halloa, Kidlets! Come along down!" came the shout of a manly voice. There was a stampede, and a race as to who should get there first. Molly arrived a bad third, but it was she who was first for him, for he went towards her and picked her up. She put her free arm around his neck, but instead of making him her little speech she exclaimed as he kissed her—
"Why, Daddy, your chin is full of splinters!"
The boys delivered their presents, and were kissed or patted on the head, and thanked, before Molly parted with the flowers which she held so tightly in her little fist.
"Your Babyship is very kind," said her father, gratefully shaking her by the hand, and, laughing still, he put her down. Then he took her hint, and seriously began to shave.
They knew they mustn't talk to him whilst that important function was proceeding, so the three stood still, deeply absorbed as they watched the performance that fascinated them with its dangers and its hairbreadth escapes.
"Now I can kiss my little Mollikins and she won't complain." He put down the towel, took her up again, and rubbed his smooth cheek against hers.
"Daddy, tell me how old you are," she asked, looking into his eyes.
"Oh, how can I do that? It's a secret."
"Do whisper it," she coaxed. After a moment's hesitation he smilingly whispered something into her ear.
"Oh, what a 'tock of years!" she exclaimed.
"What is it?" clamoured Alec. "I'm sure I'm right."
"I'm sure I am!" asserted Frank.
"I know!" cried the delighted Molly, bursting with importance. "May I tell?" Her father nodded. "Twenty-one!" she exclaimed triumphantly.
"Bosh! Why, he said he was that last year!" cried Frank.
"And the year before," asserted Alec; "and the year before that—I remember quite well. Father always says that."
"Guy!" called their mother just then. "Please send the children in to me." She was having her morning tea, so the young people ran into the adjoining room to hug her and be hugged in return.
NOON
"Sun's tum out!" announced Molly, as she toddled away from the nursery window.
"Hooray!" shouted Frank. "It's going to be fine for this evening!"
There were going to be great doings. Father's birthday and Guy Fawkes' Day made a grand double event long looked forward to with enjoyment.
"Hooray!" echoed Alec rather feebly, for he was desperately busy. Outside—now that the fog had lifted—the busy hum could be heard of everyday life, mingled with boys' shouts as they trundled a guy about.
"I've found something out!" suddenly exclaimed Alec in a curious voice, and he spread out on the table the front page of an old Times. "Look here, Frank!" he continued in growing excitement. "Here, under the Births—marked with red pencil—'Guy Thompson!' That's Father—here's the date. Wait a moment. Now I'll reckon it out. Hush! Don't say anything while I do the sum. I say! Father is twenty-one!"
"I knew it!" exclaimed Molly, capering about. "I told you so."
"Rubbish!" said Frank. "Molly, do shut up. Alec, where did you find that paper? How did it come here?"
"I found it there, on the rocking-chair. It looks old, and it is old. See, here's the date. It's very funny! I wish we could find out—it would be jolly to find out all by ourselves, if this really can be true. I say, I know who'd tell us. I've heard all about Somerset House—where you can get to know about people and their affairs—only I don't know where the place is, or who lives there."
"An omlibus will take us anywhere," spoke up Molly.
"Who's us?" inquired Frank scornfully.
"Never mind her," said Alec excitedly. "I'll tell you what. Listen: this afternoon, when we've got to be in the play-room, let's go in a cab to Somerset House, and just get to know once for all. I've got four shillings in my money-box; what have you got?"
"I'll count." Frank counted up to five shillings.
"The man may want more. Mollikins, what have you got in your purse?"
"Dot sixpence."
"Well, if you pay your share, we'll take you with us—that is, if you can put on your own hat. I can help you with your coat." And so it was arranged.
And at three o'clock that cold afternoon Alec, Frank, and Molly might have been seen stealing forth into the keen air; they were supposed to be playing at marbles in the garret or they might have been seen, and packed back again. The boys were well muffled up, and Molly had her hat on with the back to the front. The three were in high spirits once they were off, and they realised the full importance of such an adventure. In Alec's hand was the sheet of newspaper in which the truth of the paragraph was to be tested. Alec hailed the first cab, the driver shook his head. The second paid no attention. The third asked them who they thought they were getting at and where they thought they were going to.
"Somerset House!" ordered Alec, after quickly lifting Molly in, and Frank had closed the door smartly. On the way there they behaved much better than they usually did when they drove out. No one fidgeted; no one complained of feeling hungry, or thirsty, or tired, or anything.
When they alighted the cabman was told to wait. Molly and her brothers passed through the imposing gateway of Somerset House, and were starting to cross the quadrangle, when they saw the Beadle in his fine uniform (whom they took to be the Duke), and learned from him where they could find the room of which they were in search.
"Births, please," said Alec, bold as brass, to the gentleman behind the counter. He was leader and spokesman whenever they went shopping, and he was leader and spokesman to-day. Frank never interfered. And Molly had gone stonily shy. "Births, please," repeated Alec, impatient at being stared at.
"What name?" said the gentleman, looking at them amused.
"Thompson," replied Alec.
"Any particular Thompson? You see, we may have several Thompsons in our entries—five or six at least."
"This is Mr. Guy Thompson," said Alec, showing the marked paragraph.
"Very well," said the gentleman (who, thought Alec, must be the Duke's butler). "But have you got the fee?-the half-crown you must pay for the search?"
"A half-crown's very dear," said Alec. "Can't you do it for less?"
The gentleman looked at them with kindly eyes. "I dare say I can," he replied, putting his hand in his pocket, and rattling some coins. "But I'm afraid you'll have to pay a shilling. The King wants one." They paid their shilling for the King; watched while the gentleman looked up his records, and followed him into the corridor as he prosecuted his search. At last he said—
"Quite right. Born on the fifth of November: year's all right. It's all in order."
"Then Father is twenty-one?" queried both boys doubtfully.
Molly hopped on one foot in suppressed excitement.
"Your father!" exclaimed the kindly clerk, handing back the coin. "Why, how old are you?"
"Ten," replied Alec. "Thank you."
"And so your father married at the age of ten or thereabouts, did he? Dear me; very precocious of him!" exclaimed the clerk, with such a serious face that the children felt quite uncomfortable. They had not considered the matter in that light at all. Their faces fell, and they felt such a wish they had never come that without a word of explanation they turned and fled. They were glad to be once more outside the building, and thankful to find the cabman still there waiting to take them back, and in their discomfiture he was hailed by them joyfully as a dear old friend.
"Home!" said Alec, when they were inside.
"And where might that happen to be?" asked the driver with interest.
Molly, womanlike, jumped at a conclusion. "We're lost!" she wailed, and burst into tears, and it was only when she was in sight of her own nursery windows that she was comforted, and smiled once more. Without any inquiry, all their remaining savings were emptied into the willing palm of the delighted driver, who bowed his acknowledgments repeatedly.
The children ran through the garden entrance unobserved, and had just got their outdoor things off when the tea-bell rang.
NIGHT
When Alec, Frank, and Molly entered the drawing-room, where their parents were in readiness, for the great annual frolic with Father, they didn't tumble in as was their usual habit; they walked in sedately. They had something important to say.
"Truly, Daddy, how old are you?" asked Molly, running up to him. She wouldn't be hushed down by the boys. She felt she wanted to make sure of what she already knew.
"I told you I was twenty-one, of course! One always expects such a nice lot of presents when one is twenty-one! But you two young rascals evidently think I really must be a very old man of forty at least!" he replied, smiling.
"And does he never grow older, Mummy?"
"I don't see it, Molly darling."
"Do you ever see the Times, boys?" he inquired.
"That's just what's so queer," said Alec. "I've got it here." Alec noticed the glance which his parents exchanged, and their expression of astonishment when Frank remarked—
"We took it with us this afternoon to Somerset House."
"Yes," corroborated Alec.
"Me, too," chimed in Molly.
And then they told of all they had done, and their parents tried to look grave, but couldn't, and could scarcely speak for laughing, though they extorted a promise that nothing of the kind should ever again be attempted without permission.
"Surely, what is in the Times," reasoned their father, "must be true—at least one must presume so."
"Halloa," broke in Alec. "I say, Frank! Look here! This Guy Thompson was born in Cambridge Square! I never noticed that. Weren't you born in Oxford Square, Father?"
"Well, I think I might just as well have been born in one as in the other. All I know is, that if I was twenty-one, I am twenty-one—and the rest—you never asked me how many more. Come along, boys, now for our cushion-fight! But first of all, here are your expenses back again—your Babyship, there's your sixpence—and now I really can't wait any longer for a romp!"
Soon the room was gay with laughter. Father, too, had to be a real guy and a "pretend" one, pushed about in the arm-chair with a funny long nose spoiling his jolly face. And afterwards they all danced whilst their mother played a hornpipe—and really it was very difficult to guess Father's years, they might have been anything!
Then he suddenly ran out. There was a rush to the window, the blind was drawn up, and soon, in the darkness of the night, a grand catharine-wheel was seen whizzing round in a blaze of dripping fire. Then such a glorious shoot of rockets arose! Whish! bang! whish! bang! they went as they burst, each of them, into a shower of gorgeous stars all purple, and green, and gold.
"A—a—h!" exclaimed the three children, gazing with rapture. And—
"A—a—h!" they repeated over and over and over again, as splendour followed splendour, and the sky was powdered again and again with sparks of coloured fire.
TWILIGHT
It was afternoon on a cold December day. Eva, all alone in the schoolroom, sat down on the hearthrug and looked thoughtfully into the fire. She was, however, not quite alone, for her tiny Yorkshire terrier sprang on her lap, and after turning round and round, pawing at her frock as though to make a comfortable hollow, settled cosily down.
"Dot," she said, smoothing the hair back from its eyes, "I'm very miserable. To-morrow is Christmas Eve, and every one is happy except me. I'm in trouble again. Somehow, I'm always in trouble—I've spoilt my velvet frock washing your feet—and you didn't want them washed, did you?" The Honourable Dot—to give it its full title—looked desirous of forgetting the incident, then licked her hand as a reply seemed expected.
"Perhaps if I had some brothers and sisters they'd get into mischief sometimes, and it wouldn't always be me." Dot paid no heed to her grammar, was bored, and sighed heavily.
"I really didn't mean it when I said, 'I gloried in being naughty.' Don't snore, Honourable! There'll be complaints from next door."
It was curious, but Eva was having remorse, brought on by all the talk of Peace and Goodwill which was in the air. "I've tried things before," she muttered; "but I know what I'll do this time," she exclaimed, "I'll give a cot to a hospital!"
The little dog growled a protest as she suddenly got up from the floor. Eva counted the money in her money-box. "I've five shillings all but three farthings. I'm sure that is nothing like enough!" she mused. "It must cost at least a million sterling pounds!" Tears came into her eyes, but they flowed down on to a smile, as she thought of some one who always managed to do kind deeds and who might help her. Father Christmas! Eva thought of asking no less a person than Father Christmas himself to advise her. But how to find him and get a nice quiet chat with him was the difficulty. That he would come to her on Christmas Eve she had no doubt, as he never forgot her; but she had only managed to be awake and see him once, a long time ago, and then she but got a glimpse of him, for he rushed out of her room as though in a terrible hurry.
Dot's little mistress slept badly that night; she was racking her brain as to how she could manage to remain awake so as to see Father Christmas when he came, and then how she could coax him to stay for a talk—for she knew quite well how busy he must be when he was on his rounds.
The following afternoon, during a general rummage that was going on to find tiny candles and coloured glass balls that were over from last year's Christmas tree, Eva picked up a scrap of printed paper, which had come out of an old cracker. She took it upstairs to her favourite spot on the hearthrug, and read it aloud to Dot:—
Eva flushed with excitement. "Why, it's a message from him!" she cried. "It's some kind of invitation!" and she gave Dot such a squeeze of delight that the little creature squeaked shrilly, scurried off, and laid low under the table.
She thought and puzzled and pondered over the lines she had just read. At last she grasped their meaning. "Of course! How simple, after all!" she concluded. "He lives at some moated house, and I must go to him, not wait for him to come to me. He always comes down the chimney—that's the way I must go up!"
Eva didn't hesitate a moment. The opportunity had come for which she longed. She ran downstairs into the large, old-fashioned hall, which was overheated as usual, by the hot-air pipes, for the huge chimney-place was too much of a curiosity ever to be used. Here, she felt sure, was the starting-point of her adventure.
Luckily no one was about. It was windy when she looked up the great chimney, so she took her long, fair hair, and made it into a loose plait in order to keep it from blowing about her face. Then she prepared to start and secure the first footing.
Eva had never been up a chimney before, and when she began climbing she was quite surprised to find how nice and clean it was, with steps, and all white tiles. She toiled up, and up, and could see blue sky and fleeting white clouds above. After a time she stopped to rest in a little recess in the chimney side. When she started climbing again, the blue sky faded away, twilight came on, and in this very, very long chimney the light became quite dim.
Very soon, however, she felt with a little thrill of pleasure the keen air all around her head and shoulders, and she knew she had come to the top. Fortunately there was a ladder—already placed for Father Christmas to mount—and down that she went, looking below all the time so as not to make a false step. It was a very, very long ladder indeed, and Eva began to think she would have to go on stepping down for ever, when at last she found herself on the ground again—in a country field with hoar frost stiffening the blades of grass, across which she ran straight ahead as hard as ever she could go.
STARLIGHT
Once only did she halt by the side of a lane to consider what she should do if she couldn't find her destination after all. Two robins alighted in front of her, hopped about, and fluttered forward; they were so persistent that they interested her and she followed them. They flew along a side path, and Eva ran after them—ran till she arrived eager and breathless at a wooden bridge, and found that she was in a park; that above her was the dark vault of heaven decked out in all its diamonds; that the bridge led across a moat; and that in front of her was a splendid old country mansion brilliantly lighted up, where the robins alighted on a window-sill, and paying no further attention to her, busied themselves with crumbs.
It was a very, very long ladder
Then Eva advanced, almost in spite of herself, went up the front steps, and standing on tiptoe, lifted the knocker and let it fall. The knocker resounded for a while musically, like a peal of bells; when they ceased, the door opened, and a very ancient man confronted her. He was tall and thin and bent, and was dressed in draperies, with bare legs, and he had a funny little curl in the middle of his bald forehead.
"Is Father Christmas at home, please?" faltered Eva.
"Yes, little Madam," came the reply. "Do you want to see him? Really? But you will be astonished—I warn you. Aren't you frightened?"
"Not a bit," replied Eva.
"Brave little girl!" said the very ancient man. "Come in!" and he ushered her into an old oak-panelled room. It had a delicious sense of comfort, and a delight about it which, for the moment, she didn't try to define. Her attention was attracted by catching sight of what she thought was her own reflection in the large mirror against the wall—it was a little girl who came in at the same time, and was of exactly her own height. As she looked closer she saw that the other child was uglier than herself, unkind in expression, slovenly in appearance, and tried to hide herself, rather, in the dark corner where she remained. And Eva, in the novel surroundings, soon forgot all about her.
At the far end was a great log fire, and near it a huge arm-chair, in which sat a stout, healthy, red-faced old gentleman warmly wrapped in a crimson dressing-gown; he was leaning back, thinking or dozing. Eva advanced with soft steps. She was full of eagerness and excitement, for she recognised the white-bearded, handsome old face at once from the many coloured portraits she had seen. It was Father Christmas himself! Eva never knew what impelled her to do it, but when she got close to him she simply threw her arms around his neck and kissed him.
"Bless my soul!" exclaimed Father Christmas, starting; and catching her up, he seated her on his knee. He recognised her at once. "How you've grown since last year, Eva!" and he looked at her with beaming eyes. "I suppose you know you're trespassing? and the penalty is forty crackers or a kiss!" And he chuckled and laughed so merrily that she felt quite comfortable, finding trespassing a very pleasant occupation, and wasn't a bit alarmed at the penalty.
"And what brings me this honour?" he continued.
"Good evening, Father Christmas," spoke up Eva quite boldly. "I'm afraid I disturbed you."
"I suppose you know you're trespassing?"
"Oh yes, you've disturbed me all right," he replied briskly, "but I was only resting a little after my labours before going on my rounds to-night."
"What labours?"
"Toys. Toys and sweets. I've been making toys and things all the year through, and have only just got them finished in time. I love making crackers, too; I spend all my evenings writing mottoes for them."
"I found your invitation, Mr. Christmas."
"Bless me! did you now? Ah!" He stroked his beard thoughtfully for a moment and remained silent. Eva looked about her in amazement.
"Those are all secrets!" he observed after a time. Father Christmas included with a sweep of the arm the toys which were everywhere about—hanging from the ceiling, lying about on the tables and sofas, standing as ornaments on the mantelpiece, filling the shelves of the bookcases, peeping from behind the glass cabinets—toys wherever one looked.
He arose, and taking her by the hand, led her round to enjoy the pretty sight; and paying no attention whatever to the sullen little girl in the corner, he asked Eva if she would like to see around his domain. "Oh yes, yes," she cried. She quite appreciated the special honour that was being done her.
"They'll be coming in here soon to pack," he added. "I'm going to leave all these secrets myself at their destinations."
There was a tremendous bustle going on at the rear of the premises, where a whole army of packers, carriers, postmen, and porters were hurrying about letting down toys from the loft, packing them, labelling them to places far and wide; loading them on huge vans which came rumbling in and out of the courtyard with cracking of whips, and parting shouts of "Good luck!"
Superintending the arrangements, walking to and fro, was the very ancient man. He was so alert, and always on the spot where wanted, yet Eva was thinking his age must at least be two hundred, when Father Christmas said kindly: "My dear, this is my father—he is known as Father Time, and you have known him without having really met him face to face before."
"I didn't recognise him, and I didn't know he was your father, sir," she whispered.
"Why, yes. Don't you know that my full name is Christmas Time?"
"Of course it is," she exclaimed with a laugh.
The next visit was through a covered way to the printing works—where the mottoes and "directions" for toys and Father Christmas's visiting cards were printed. These cards were all different in design, and each was a beautiful picture stamped with his name, and his own motto, "Peace and Goodwill."
Behind was the sweet factory, with its tempting packets and muslin stockings of all sizes full of sugar-plums. But, as Father Time appeared, Father Christmas whispered that he feared they must not linger, and led the way up a spiral staircase in order to enable Eva to have a peep into the toy-loft, where men were letting the toys down into the busy yard below. How she would have loved to stay longer in each delightful place, but without a murmur she followed her guide below and back to the oak-panelled room. It looked so bare and different without the toys—much like any ordinary room.
"And now, my dear," he said, "you must excuse me for a short time, as I must go upstairs and get ready."
"Please, ought I to be going?" she asked politely.
"No, no. Not yet." And he went away, up the grand staircase, to his bedroom. There he took from the drawer his scarlet fur-lined cloak and hood with wide swansdown trimming, which had been put away in lavender, chose his thickest top-boots, and humming a song, proceeded to array himself for the long, cold journey in store for him that night.
Meanwhile, the moment he left his little visitor downstairs, the strange-looking child approached her.
"What's your name?" asked Eva pleasantly.
"Eva," came the surly reply.
"Why, that's my name!"
"Of course. I know you, I know you through and through—good and bad—and I wish I didn't."
"You're a horrid story-teller," said Eva angrily.
"Supposing I am! It's easier to tell stories than to tell the truth. Saves a lot of trouble. Besides, it's nice. You know that as well as I do."
Eva would have liked to deny it, only she felt too scornful. "Saves trouble?" she said to herself. "Makes trouble." But she flushed as she remembered she had once thought that too, but only for a moment; and she was ashamed of it now. She was ruffled and uncomfortable at the proximity of this horrid girl, who now said slyly: "Look over there in that cupboard, there's a doll that has been forgotten. I want it, and I'm going to take it and hide it under my pinafore."
"You mayn't—you mustn't!" cried Eva. "It would be stealing."
"I don't care. Father Christmas won't know."
"Yes, he will. I shall tell him!"
"Then I'll say it was given to me."
"You horrid girl! You dreadful story-teller!"
"Don't be silly. What does it matter telling stories and stealing, so long as you're not found out?"
"It's just as bad if you're not found out. But you are bound to be found out," cried Eva, in horror and disgust as she saw her approach the coveted treasure. "I tell you, wicked people are always found out; they never escape unpunished."
"I want it, and I'm going to have it."
"You mustn't. Come away—you shan't!" shouted Eva, running after her; and she seized her by both wrists. "Come away! Oh, do come away!"
"You fool! leave me alone. Get away!" and with a scoffing laugh the girl shook herself free, sprang on a sofa, opened the cupboard, and stretched out her hand.
Without a word Eva threw herself upon her, slammed-to the glass door, and in the struggle they fell together on the floor. There was a crash of broken glass, and through the noise Eva heard the voice of her opponent saying faintly: "Let me go! You have won!"
When she got up, carefully shaking the bits of glass from her frock, and looked round, the horrid little girl had disappeared. The next moment her host stood in the doorway with a curious smile on his face.
"I'm going now," he said; "will you come?"
"Oh, please, Father Christmas," exclaimed Eva ruefully, as she looked at the glass on the floor, "do wait! I want to explain something—I——"
"I can't keep my father waiting," he answered gently. She followed him to the front door. There in the frosty night a beautiful sledge was in waiting, hung with baskets and sacks overflowing with toys and sweets. Father Christmas took his seat and beckoned to Eva. To her joy he lifted her on to his lap and wrapped his great coat about her. Father Time, who was on the box, shook the reins, and the two reindeer, impatient to be off, sped rapidly away amid the jangling of bells, carrying the travellers over the bridge, through the park, past holly and fir trees all powdered with glistening frost, out over the country into the bright, crisp night.
MOONLIGHT
There was Eva with Father Christmas, all snug amongst his soft furs, on his rounds. "Why do you take some toys yourself," she asked, "and send others away in the great carts?"
"Those in the carts are for my export and wholesale trade—shops, and so on; these I take are for my special favourites. You're on my list, my dear, you know." Eva's heart was full of tenderness and pride, but tears were in her eyes as she said, peering appealingly into his kind face—
"May I whisper something?"
He bent his head—and she whispered.
"Bless my soul!" was all Father Christmas replied, but he looked very pleased and jolly.
"And I should like to pay for it," continued Eva; "I've got five shillings all but three farthings."
"Never mind about that, my dear."
"But I'm sure I ought," she replied dubiously. "Dear Father Christmas, you are always doing kindnesses; could you tell me how to do something like giving a cot to a hospital, or a free library, or something? That's what I really came to ask you about, only I forgot it until now. I'm so often in trouble, and I've so often tried to do some good, but it doesn't come off somehow," and she sighed.
"What you ask me is a secret," he answered. "Some people are quick to find it out for themselves. Some people never find it out. But I will tell it to you, dear, because I know that by to-morrow you will be on the high road to guessing it. It is this: You need not give things. You needn't try to be good. Try only not to be troublesome. If you are sweet, and gentle, and kind, you give happiness—not only do you give it, but you can then only find happiness yourself." Somehow, it didn't sound a bit like a sermon; it was more like being told the delightfully easy answer to a difficult sum. Eva nestled closer to her dear old friend as she listened—it was all so peaceful, reassuring, and soothing.