They were talking of
old times. They heard a rap at the door. Trove flung it open. He
spoke a word of surprise. There was the old Santa Claus of Cedar
Hill--upon my word, sir--the very one. He entered, shaking his
great coat, his beard full of snow. He let down his sack there by
the lighted tree. He beckoned to the little one.
"'Go and see him--it is old Santa Claus,' said Polly, her voice
trembling as she led the child.
"Then, quickly, she took the hand of her husband.
"'He is your father,' she whispered.
"A moment they stood with hearts full, looking at Santa Claus and
the child. That little one had her arms about a knee, and, dumb
with great wonder, gazed up at him. There was a timid appeal in
her sweet face.
"The man did not move; he was looking down at the child. In a
moment she began to prattle and tug at him. They saw his knees
bend a bit. Ah, sir, it seemed as if the baby were pulling him
down. He gently pushed the child away. They heard a little cry--a
kind of a wailing 'Oh-o-o,'--like that you hear in the chimney.
Then, sir, down he went in his tracks--a quivering little
heap,--and lay there at the foot of the tree. Polly and Trove were
bending over him.
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