“It came from the old farm.  There was oil on it and I sold it for a great price.  I was happily married.  I came here and have been successful in business.  Half of it all is yours.”

“I won’t take it.”

“John,” said William Carstairs, “I offered you money once and you struck it out of my hand.  You remember?”

“Yes.”

“What I am offering you now is your own.  You can’t strike it out of my hand.  It is not mine, but yours.”

“I won’t have it,” protested the man.  “It’s too late.  You don’t know what I’ve been, a common thief.  ‘Crackerjack’ is my name.  Every policeman and detective in New York knows me.”

“But you’ve got a little Helen, too, haven’t you?” interposed the little girl with wisdom and tact beyond her years.

“Yes.”

“And you said she was very poor and had no Christmas.”

“Yes.”

“For her sake, John,” said William Carstairs.  “Indeed you must not think you have been punished alone.  I have been punished, too.  I’ll help you begin again.  Here”—­he stepped closer to his brother—­“is my hand.”

The other stared at it uncomprehendingly.

“There is nothing in it now but affection.  Won’t you take it?”

Slowly John Carstairs lifted his hand.  His palm met that of his elder brother.  He was so hungry and so weak and so overcome that he swayed a little.  His head bowed, his body shook and the elder brother put his arm around him and drew him close.

Into the room came William Carstairs’ wife.  She, too, had at last been aroused by the conversation, and, missing her husband, she had thrown a wrapper about her and had come down to seek him.

“We tame down to find Santy Claus,” burst out young John William, at the sight of her, “and he’s been here, look muvver.”

Yes, Santa Claus had indeed been there.  The boy spoke better than he knew.

“And this,” said little Helen eagerly, pointing proudly to her new acquaintance, “is a friend of his, and he knows papa and he’s got a little Helen and we’re going to give her a Merry Christmas.”

William Carstairs had no secrets from his wife.  With a flash of womanly intuition, although she could not understand how he came to be there, she divined who this strange guest was who looked a pale, weak picture of her strong and splendid husband, and yet she must have final assurance.

“Who is this gentleman, William?” she asked quietly, and John Carstairs was forever grateful to her for her word that night.

“This,” said William Carstairs, “is my father’s son, my brother, who was dead and is alive again, and was lost and is found.”

And so, as it began with the beginning, this story ends with the ending of the best and most famous of all the stories that were ever told.

[Illustration]

ON CHRISTMAS GIVING