One blow
or even a harsh word sent him to his refuge in hot haste. He had
learned early that the ways of hired men were full of violence and
peril. Hospitality and affection had won his confidence but never
deprived him of his caution.
Presently there came a heavy step and a quick pull at the
latch-string. An odd figure entered in a swirl of snow--a real
Santa Claus, the mystery and blessing of Cedar Hill. For five
years, every Christmas Eve, in good or bad weather, he had come to
four little houses on the Hill, where, indeed, his coming had been
as a Godsend. Whence he came and who he might be none had been
able to guess. He never spoke in his official capacity, and no
citizen of Faraway had such a beard or figure as this man. Now his
fur coat, his beard, and eyebrows were hoary with snow and frost.
Icicles hung from his mustache around the short clay pipe of
tradition. He lowered a great sack and brushed the snow off it.
He had borne it high on his back, with a strap at each shoulder.
The sack was now about half full of things. He took out three big
bundles and laid them on the table. They were evidently for the
widow herself, who quickly stepped to the bedside.
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