painter?" Tunk shouted, as they came near.

"Gone to the woods."

"Heavens!" said Tunk, gloomily. "I'm all tore up; there ain't
nothin' left o' me--boots full o' blood. I tell ye this country's
a leetle too wild fer me."

He came down the ladder slowly, and sat on the step and drew off
his boots. There was no blood in them. Trove helped him remove
his coat; all, save his imagination, was unharmed.

"Wal," said he, thoughtfully, "that's what ye git fer doin' suthin'
ye hadn't ought to. I ain't goin' t' take no more chances."

XXXVII

The Return of Santa Claus

Did ye hear the cock crow? By the beard of my father, I'd
forgotten you and myself and everything but the story. It's near
morning, and I've a weary tongue. Another log and one more pipe.
Then, sir, then I'll let you go. I'm near the end.

"Let me see--it's a winter day in New York City, after four years.
The streets are crowded. Here are men and women, but I see only
the horses,--you know, sir, how I love them. They go by with heavy
truck and cab, steaming, straining', slipping in the deep snow.
You hear the song of lashes, the whack of whips, and, now and then,
the shout of some bedevilled voice. Horses fall, and struggle, and
lie helpless, and their drivers--well, if I were to watch them
long, I should be in danger of madness and hell-fire. Well, here
is a big stable. A tall man has halted by its open door, and
addresses the manager.

"'I learn that you have a bay mare with starred face and a white
stocking.' It is Trove who speaks.

"'Yes; there she is, coming yonder.'

"The mare is a rack of bones, limping, weary, sore. But see her
foot lift! You can't kill the pride of the Barbary. She falters;
her driver lashes her over the head. Trove is running toward her.
He climbs a front wheel, and down comes the driver. In a minute
Trove has her by the bit. He calls her by name--Phyllis! The slim
ears begin to move. She nickers. God, sir! she is trying to see
him. One eye is bleeding, the other blind. His arms go round her
neck, sir, and he hides his face in her mane. That mare you
ride--she is the granddaughter of Phyllis. I'd as soon think of
selling my wife. Really, sir, Darrel was right. God'll mind the
look of your horses."

So spake an old man sitting in the firelight. Since they sat down
the short hand of the clock had nearly circled the dial. There was
a little pause. He did love a horse--that old man of