When the Yule Log Burns | Page 8

of the fire-shadows.
"Rise--" said Roger radiantly, tapping him with a cedar wand, "I--I dub thee first of all my knights--the good, kind Christmas Knight!"
"And here," said Ralph, smiling, "here's Sister Madge. What grand title now shall we give to her?" But as Sister Madge knelt before him with firelit shadows dancing in her sweet, dark eyes, Roger dropped the wand and buried his face on her shoulder with a little sob.
"Nothing good enough for Sister Madge, eh?" broke in the old Doctor, looking up. "Well, sir, I think you're right."
Now in the silence Aunt Ellen spoke and her words were like a gentle Christmas benediction.
"'Unto us,'" said Aunt Ellen Leslie as she turned the Christmas log, "'this night a son is given!'"
But Ralph, by the window, had not heard. For wakening again in his heart as he stared at the peaceful, moonlit, "God-made" hills--was the old forgotten boyish love for this rugged, simple life of his father's dwarfing the lure of the city and the mockery of his fashionable friends. And down the lane of years ahead, bright with homely happiness and service to the needs of others--was the dark and winsome face of Sister Madge, stirring him to ardent resolution.

Part Two
In Which We Light the New Log with the Embers of the Old

I
The Fire Again
"Doctor!" said little Roger slyly, "you got your chin stuck out!"
The Doctor stroked his grizzled beard in hasty apology.
"God bless my soul," he admitted guiltily. "I do believe I have. You've been so quiet," he added accusingly, "curled up there by the fire that I must certainly have gotten lonesome. And I most always stick out my chin that way when I'm lonesome."
Roger, by way of reparation, betook himself to the arm of the Doctor's chair.
The Doctor's arm closed tight around him. A year ago this little adopted son of his had been very lame. It was the first Christmas in his life, indeed, that he had walked.
"Out there," said the Doctor, "the winter twilight's been fighting the alder berries with purple spears. It's conquered everything in the garden and covered it up with misty velvet save the snow and the berries. But the twilight's using heavier spears now and likely it'll win. I want the alder berries to win out, drat it! Their blaze is so bright and cheerful."
Roger accepted the challenge to argument with enthusiasm.
"I want the twilight to win," he said.
The Doctor looked slightly scandalized.
"Oh, my, my, my, my!" he said. "I can't for the life of me understand any such gloomy preference as that. Bless me, if I can."
"Why," crowed Roger jubilantly, "I can, 'cause the more twilighty it gets, the more it's Christmas eve!"
The Doctor regarded his small friend with admiration.
"By George," he admitted, "I do believe you have me there--" but the Doctor's kindly eyes did not fire to the name of Christmas as Roger thought they ought.
"Almost," he said, "I thought you were going to stick out your chin again. And you're not lonesome now 'cause I'm here an' pretty noisy."
"Hum!" said the Doctor.
"Man to man, now!" urged Roger suddenly.
This was the accepted key to a confessional ceremony which required much politeness and ruthless honesty.
"Well, Mr. Hildreth," began the Doctor formally.
Roger's face fell.
"I'm your adopted son," he hinted, "and you said that made my name same as yours."
"Mr. Leslie!" corrected the Doctor, and Roger glowed.
"Well, Mr. Leslie," went on the Doctor thoughtfully, "I'm chuck full of grievances. There's the rheumatism in my leg, for instance. That's no sort of thing to have at Christmas."
"But that's better," said Roger. "You said so this morning. I 'spect you been thinkin' too much about it like you said I did when my leg was stiff."
"Ahem! And I did hope somebody would come home for Christmas. I like a house full of romping youngsters--"
Roger pointed an accusing finger.
"Aunt Ellen says every blessed one of your children, an' your grand-children too, begged and begged you to come to the city for Christmas an'--an' you wouldn't go 'cause you're old-fashioned and like a country Christmas so much better--an'--an' because you'd promised to teach me to skate on the Deacon's pond an' take me sleighin'."
"Dear me," said the Doctor helplessly, "for such a mite of a kiddy, you do seem remarkably well informed."
"Man to man," reminded Roger inexorably and the Doctor aired his final grievance.
"And then there's that youngest son of mine--"
"Doctor Ralph?"
"Doctor Ralph! What right had he, I'd like to know, to marry that pretty sister of yours and go off honeymooning holiday time. Didn't he know that we needed him and Sister Madge here for Christmas? I miss 'em both. Young pirate!"
Roger's heart swelled with loyalty. It was Doctor Ralph's skilful hand that had helped him walk.
"Most likely," he said fairly, "I'm a little to blame there. After I came home from the