Her apron empty, Mrs. Vaughn took her knitting to the fire, and before she began to ply the needles, looked thoughtfully at her hands.  They had been soft and shapely before the days of toil.  A frail but comely woman she was, with pale face, and dark eyes, and hair prematurely white.

She had come west—­a girl of nineteen—­with her young husband, full of high hopes.  That was twenty-one years ago, and the new land had poorly kept its promise.

And the children—­“How many have you?” a caller had once inquired.  “Listen,” said she, “hear ’em, an’ you’d say there were fifteen, but count ’em an’ they’re only four.”

The low, weathered house and sixty acres were mortgaged.  Even the wilderness had not wholly signed off its claim.  Every year it exacted tribute, the foxes taking a share of her poultry, and the wild deer feeding on her grain.

A little beggar of a dog, that now lay in the firelight, had offered himself one day, with cheerful confidence, and been accepted.  Small, affectionate, cowardly, irresponsible, and yellow, he was in the nature of a luxury, as the widow had once said.  He had a slim nose, no longer than a man’s thumb, and ever busy.  He was a most prudent animal, and the first day found a small opening in the foundation of the barn through which he betook himself always at any sign of danger.  He soon buried his bones there, and was ready for a siege if, perchance, it came.  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.

“Come, children,” she whispered, rousing them; “here is Santa Claus.”

They scrambled down, rubbing their eyes.  Polly took the hands of the two small boys and led them near him.  Paul drew his hand away and stood spellbound, eyes and mouth open.  He watched every motion of the good Saint, who had come to that chair that held the little stockings.  Santa Claus put a pair of boots on it.  They were copper-toed, with gorgeous front pieces of red morocco at the top of the leg.  Then, as if he had some relish of a joke, he took them up, looked them over thoughtfully, and put them in the sack again, whereupon the boy Paul burst into tears.  Old Santa Claus, shaking with silent laughter, replaced them in the chair quickly,