“What ails her?” he said, looking up, bewildered, to Holmes.  “We’ve killed her among us.”

She laughed, though the great eyes were growing dim, and drew his coarse gray hair into her hand.

“Yoh wur long comin’,” she said, weakly.  “I hunted fur yoh every day,—­every day.”

The old man had pushed her hair back, and was reading the sunken face with a wild fear.

“What ails her?” he cried.  “Ther’ ‘s somethin’ gone wi’ my girl.  Was it my fault?  Lo, was it my fault?”

“Be quiet!” said Holmes, sternly.

“Is it that?” he gasped, shrilly.  “My God! not that!  I can’t bear it!”

Lois soothed him, patting his face childishly.

“Am I dyin’?” she asked, with a frightened look at Holmes.

He told her no, cheerfully.

“I’ve no tho’t o’ dyin’.  I dunnot thenk o’ dyin’.  Don’t mind, dear!  Yoh’ll stay with me, fur good?”

The man’s paroxysm of fear for her over, his spite and cowardice came uppermost.

“It’s him,” he yelped, looking fiercely at Holmes.  “He’s got my life in his hands.  He kin take it.  What does he keer fur me or my girl?  I’ll not stay wi’ yoh no longer, Lo.  Mornin’ he’ll send me t’ th’ lock-up, an’ after”——­

“I care for you, child,” said Holmes, stooping suddenly close to the girl’s livid face.

“To-morrow?” she muttered.  “My Christmas-day?”

He wet her face while he looked over at the wretch whose life he held in his hands.  It was the iron rule of Holmes’s nature to be just; but to-night dim perceptions of a deeper justice than law opened before him,—­problems he had no time to solve:  the sternest fortress is liable to be taken by assault,—­and the dew of the coming morn was on his heart.

“So as I’ve hunted fur him!” she whispered, weakly.  “I didn’t think it wud come to this.  So as I loved him!  Oh, Mr. Holmes, he’s hed a pore chance in livin’,—­forgive him this!  Him that’ll come to-morrow’d say to forgive him this.”

She caught the old man’s head in her arms with an agony of tears, and held it tight.

“I hev hed a pore chance,” he said, looking up,—­“that’s God’s truth, Lo!  I dunnot keer fur that:  it’s too late goin’ back.—­Mas’r,” he mumbled, servilely, “it’s on’y a little time t’ th’ end:  let me stay with Lo.  She loves me,—­Lo does.”

A look of disgust crept over Holmes’s face.

“Stay, then,” he muttered,—­“I wash my hands of you, you old scoundrel!”

He bent over Lois with his rare, pitiful smile.

“Have I his life in my hands?  I put it into yours,—­so, child!  Now put it all out of your head, and look up here to wish me good-bye.”

She looked up cheerfully, hardly conscious how deep the danger had been; but the flush had gone from her face, leaving it sad and still.

“I must go to keep Christmas, Lois,” he said, playfully.

“Yoh’re keepin’ it here, Sir.”  She held her weak gripe on his hand still, with the vague outlook in her eyes that came there sometimes.  “Was it fur me yoh done it?”