“He coming!” he cried, when fifty yards away.  “Light the candles—­quick!”

In a fever of joy and excitement the rough fellows lighted up their home-made tree.  The forge flung a largess of heat and light, as red as holly, through the gloom of the place.  All the men were prepared with a cheer, their faces wreathed with smiles, in a new sort of joy.  But the moments sped away in silence and nothing of Jim and the one small cause of their happiness appeared.  Indeed, the gray old miner was at Dennihan’s already.  Keno had met him on the hill with an eager cry that welcome and refuge were gladly prepared.

With her face oddly softened by the news and appeal, Miss Doc herself came running to the gate, her hungry arms outstretched to take the child.

“Just make him well,” was Jim’s one cry.  “I know a woman can make him well.”

And all afternoon the men at the blacksmith’s-shop kept up their hope.  Keno had come to them, telling of the altered plans by which little Skeezucks had found his way to Miss Doc, but by special instruction he added that Jim was certain that improvement was coming already.

“He told me that evenin’ is the customary hour fer to have a tree, anyhow,” concluded Keno, hopefully.  “He says he was off when he said to turn it loose at noon.”

“Does he think Miss Doc can git the little feller fixed all up to celebrate to-night?” inquired Bone.  “Is that the bill of fare?”

“That’s about it,” said Keno, importantly.  “I’m to come and let you know when we’re ready.”

Impatient for the night to arrive, excited anew, when at last it closed in on the world of snow and mountains, the celebrators once more gathered at the shop and lighted up their tree.  The wind was rushing brusquely up the street; the snow began once more to fall.  From the “Palace” saloon came the sounds of music, laughter, song, and revelry.  Light streamed forth from the window in glowing invitation.  All day long its flow of steaming drinks and its endless succession of savory dishes had laded the air with temptation.

Not a few of the citizens of Borealis had succumbed to the gayer attractions of Parky’s festival, but the men who had builded a Christmas-tree and loaded its branches with presents waited and waited for tiny Skeezucks in the dingy shop.

The evening passed.  Night aged in the way that wintry storm and lowering skies compel.  Dismally creaked the door on its rusted hinges.  Into the chink shot the particles of snow, and formed again that icy mark across the floor of the shop.  One by one the candles burned away on the tree, gave a gasp, a flare, and expired.

Silently, loyally the group of big, rough miners and toilers sat in the cheerless gloom, hearing that music, in its soullessness, come on the gusts of the storm—­waiting, waiting for their tiny guest.

At length a single candle alone illumined their pitiful tree, standing with its meagre branches of greenery stiffly upheld on its scrawny frame, while the darkness closed sombrely in upon the glint of the toys they had labored to make.