Mr. Kris Kringle | Page 3

back upon her, so that under the sad power of their recurrent
memories she seemed a helpless prey.
[Illustration: AND OPENED THE CASE OF A MINIATURE,
SLOWLY AND WITH DELIBERATE CARE.]
While the children were yet too young to recognize their loss the great
calamity of her life had come. Then by degrees the wreck of her fortune
had gone to pieces, and now at last the home of her own people, deeply
mortgaged, was about to pass from her forever. Much that was
humbling had fallen to her in life, but nothing as sore as this final
disaster. At length she rose, took a lighted candle from the table, and
walked slowly around the great library room. The sombre bindings of
the books her childhood knew called back dim recollections. The great
china bowls, the tall silver tankards, the shining sconces, and above, all
the Stuart portraits or the Copleys of the men who shone in Colonial
days and helped to make a more than imperial nation, each and all
disturbed her as she gazed. At last, she returned to the fireside, sat
down and began anew her unfinished task. With hasty hands she
tumbled over the letters, and at length came upon a package tied with a
faded ribbon; one of those thin orange-colored silk bands with which
cigars are tied in bundles. She threw it aside with a quick movement of
disdain, and opened the case of a miniature, slowly, and with deliberate
care. A letter fell on to her lap as she bent over the portrait of a young
man. The day, the time, the need to dispose of accumulated letters, had

brought her to this which she meant to be a final settlement of one of
life's grim accounts. For awhile, she steadily regarded the relics of
happier hours. Then, throwing herself back in her chair, she cried aloud,
"How long I hoped; how hopeless was my hope, and he said, he said, I
was cruel and hard. That I loved him no more. Oh! that was a lie! a
bitter lie! But a sot, a sot, and my children to grow up and see what I
saw, and learn to bear what I have borne. No! no! a thousand times no!
I chose between two duties, and I was right. I was the man of the two,
and I sent him away--forever. He said,--yes, I was right, but, my God!
how cruel is life! I would never have gone, never! never! There!" she
exclaimed, and threw back the miniature into the basket, closing it with
violence, as she did so, as one may shut an unpleasant book read and
done with.
For a moment, and with firmer face, she considered the letter, reading
scraps of it aloud, as if testing her resolution to make an end of it all.
"Hard, was I? Yes. Would I had been sooner hard. My children would
have been better off. 'I went because you bid me.' Yes I did. Will he
ever know what that cost me? 'I shall never come again until you bid
me come.' Not in this world then?" she cried. "O Hugh! Hugh!" And in
a passion of tears that told of a too great trial, still resolute despite her
partial defeat, she tore the letter and cast it on the fire. "There!" she
cried, "would to God I loved him less." And then, with strange firmness,
she took up a book, and sternly set herself to comprehend what she
read.
The hours went by and at last she rose wearily, put out one candle,
raked ashes over the embers, and taking the other light, went slowly up
to bed. She paused a moment at the nursery door where she heard
voices. "What! awake still?"
"We was only talking about Khwis," said the small boy. "We won't any
more, will we, Alice? She thinks he won't come, but I think he will
come because we are both so good all to-day."
"No, no, he will not come this Christmas, my darlings. Go to sleep. Go
to sleep," and with too full a heart she turned away.

But the usual tranquil slumber of childhood was not theirs. The
immense fact that they were soon to leave their home troubled the
imaginative little man. Then, too, a great wind began to sweep over the
hills and to shake the snow-laden pines. On its way, it carried anew
from the ice of the river wild sounds of disturbance and at last, in the
mid hours of night, an avalanche of snow slid from the roof. Hugh sat
up; he realized well enough what had happened. But presently the
quick ear of childhood was aware of other, and less familiar sounds.
Was it Kris Kringle? Oh! if he could only