y in the corner."

It was the truth; and it was the scraping and scrooching for the last
piece that had left Teig's cupboard bare of a Christmas dinner.

"Gold is betther nor eatin' an' dthrinkin'. An' if ye have naught to
give, there'll be naught asked of ye;" and he laughed again.

He was thinking of the neighbours, and the doles of food and piggins of
milk that would pass over their thresholds that night to the vagabonds
and paupers who were sure to come begging. And on the heels of that
thought followed another: who would be giving old Barney his dinner?
Barney lived a stone's throw from Teig, alone, in a wee tumbled-in
cabin; and for a score of years past Teig had stood on the doorstep
every Christmas Eve, and, making a hollow of his two hands, had called
across the road:

"Hey, there, Barney, will ye come over for a sup?"

And Barney had reached for his crutches--there being but one leg to
him--and had come.

"Faith," said Teig, trying another laugh, "Barney can fast for the once;
'twill be all the same in a month's time." And he fell to thinking of
the gold again. A knock came at the door. Teig pulled himself down in
his chair where the shadow would cover him, and held his tongue.

"Teig, Teig!" It was the widow O'Donnelly's voice. "If ye are there,
open your door. I have not got the pay for the spriggin' this month, an'
the childher are needin' food."

But Teig put the leash on his tongue, and never stirred till he heard
the tramp of her feet going on to the next cabin. Then he saw to it that
the door was tight-barred. Another knock came, and it was a stranger's
voice this time:

"The other cabins are filled; not one but has its hearth crowded; will
ye take us in--the two of us? The wind bites mortal sharp, not a morsel
o' food have ne tasted this day. Masther, will ye take us in?"

But Teig sat on, a-holding his tongue; and the tramp of the strangers'
feet passed down the road. Others took their place--small feet, running.
It was the miller's wee Cassie, and she called out as she ran by.

"Old Barney's watchin' for ye. Ye'll not be forgettin' him, will ye,
Teig?"

And then the child broke into a song, sweet and clear, as she passed
down the road:

"Listen all ye, 'tis the Feast o' St. Stephen,
Mind that ye keep it, this holy even.
Open your door an' greet ye the stranger--
For ye mind that the wee Lord had naught but a manger.
Mhuire as truagh!

"Feed