All day the miner watched the sleeping or the waking of the tiny pilgrim.  The men who came to tell of the final completion of the tree and the greater preparations for the feast were assured that the one tiny guest for whom their labors of love were being expended would surely be ready to enjoy the celebration.

The afternoon gave way to night in the manner common to wintry days.  From time to time a gust of wind tore the fleece from the clouds and hurled it in snow upon the silent earth.  Dimly the lights of the cabins shone through the darkness and the chill.

At the blacksmith’s shop the wind went in as if to warm itself before the forge, only to find it chill and black, wherefore it crept out again at the creaking door.  A long, straight pencil of snow was flung through a chink, across the earthen floor and against the swaying Christmas-tree, on which the, presents, hanging in readiness for little Skeezucks, beat out a dull, monotonous clatter of tin and wood as they collided in the draught.

The morning—­Christmas morning—­broke with one bright gleam of sunlight, shining through the leaden banks before the cover of clouds was once more dropped upon the broken rim of mountains all about.

Old Jim was out of his bunk betimes, cooking a breakfast fit, he said, “to tempt a skeleton to feast.”

True to his scheme of ensnaring the gray old miner in an idleness with regard to his mine which should soon prove a fatal mistake, Parky, the gambler, had sent a load of the choicest provisions from the store to the cabin on the hill.  Only too glad of the daintier morsels thus supplied for his ailing little guest, old Jim had made but feeble protest when the things arrived, and now was preparing a meal from the nicest of the packages.

Little Skeezucks, however, waked in a mood of lethargy not to be fathomed by mere affection.  Not only did he turn away at the mere suggestion of eating, but he feebly hid his face and gave a little moan.

“He ain’t no better,” Jim announced, putting down a breakfast-dish with its cargo quite untasted.  “I wish we had a little bit of medicine.”

“What kind?” said the worried Keno.

“It wouldn’t make much difference,” answered the miner.  “Anything is medicine that a doctor prescribes, even if it’s only sugar-and-water.”

“But there ain’t a doctor into camp,” objected Keno, hauling at his sleeves.  “And the one they had in Bullionville has went away, and he was fifty miles from here.”

“I know,” said Jim.

“You don’t think he’s sick?” inquired Keno, anxiously.

Jim looked long at his tiny foundling dressed in the nightie that came below his feet.  A dull, heavy look was in the little fellow’s eyes, half closed and listless.

“He ain’t no better,” the miner repeated.  “I don’t know what to do.”

Keno hesitated, coughed once or twice, and stirred the fire fiercely before he spoke again.  Then he said, “Miss Doc is a sort of female doctor.  She knows lots of female things.”