"But I'll see my
girl. I've waited hyur, runnin' the resk,--not darin' to see
her, on 'count o' yoh. I thort I was safe on Christmas-day,--but
what's Christmas to yoh or me?"
Holmes's quiet motion drove him up the steps before him. He
stopped at the top, his cowardly nature getting the better of
him, and sat down whining on the upper step.
"Be marciful, Mas'r! I wanted to see my girl,--that's all.
She's all I hev."
Holmes passed him and went in. Was Christmas nothing to him?
How did this foul wretch know that they stood alone, apart from
the world?
It was a low, cheerful little room that he came into, stooping
his tall head: a tea-kettle humming and singing on the wood-fire,
that lighted up the coarse carpet and the gray walls, but spent
its warmest heat on the low settee where Lois lay sewing, and
singing to herself. She was wrapped up in a shawl, but the
hands, he saw, were worn to skin and bone; the gray shadow was
heavier on her face, and the brooding brown eyes were like a
tired child's. She tried to jump up when she saw him, and not
being able, leaned on one elbow, half-crying as she laughed.
"It's the best Christmas gift of all! I can hardly b'lieve
it!"--touching the strong hand humbly that was held out to her.
Holmes had a gentle touch, I told you, for dogs and children and
women: so, sitting quietly by her, he listened for a long time
with untiring patience to her long story; looked at the heap of
worthless trifles she had patched up for gifts, wondering
secretly at the delicate sense of colour and grace betrayed in
the bits of flannel and leather; and took, with a grave look of
wonder, his own package, out of which a bit of woollen thread
peeped forth.
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