"'Yes, and he is the same miracle of happiness. I think he will soon be free. Leblanc is there in prison--convicted of a crime in Whitehall. As I expected, there is a red mark on the back of his left hand. Day after to-morrow we go again to Dannemora. Sweetheart! I hurried home to see you.' And then--well, I do like to see it--the fondness of young people. "Night came, dark and stormy, with snow in the west wind. They were sitting there by the Christmas tree, all bright with candles--Polly, Trove, and the little child. They were talking of old times. They heard a rap at the door. Trove flung it open. He spoke a word of surprise. There was the old Santa Claus of Cedar Hill--upon my word, sir--the very one. He entered, shaking his great coat, his beard full of snow. He let down his sack there by the lighted tree. He beckoned to the little one. "'Go and see him--it is old Santa Claus,' said Polly, her voice trembling as she led the child. "Then, quickly, she took the hand of her husband. "'He is your father,' she whispered. "A moment they stood with hearts full, looking at Santa Claus and the child. That little one had her arms about a knee, and, dumb with great wonder, gazed up at him. There was a timid appeal in her sweet face. "The man did not move; he was looking down at the child. In a moment she began to prattle and tug at him. They saw his knees bend a bit. Ah, sir, it seemed as if the baby were pulling him down. He gently pushed the child away. They heard a little cry--a kind of a wailing 'Oh-o-o,'--like that you hear in the chimney. Then, sir, down he went in his tracks--a quivering little heap,--and lay there at the foot of the tree. Polly and Trove were bending over him. Cap and wig had fallen from his head. He was an old man. "'Father!' Trove whispered, touching the long white hair. 'O my father! speak to me. Let me--let me see your face.' "Slowly--slowly, the old man rose, Trove helping him, and put on his cap. Then, sir, he took a step back and stood straight as a king. He waved them away with his hand. "'Nay, boy, remember,' he whispered. 'Ye were to let him pass.' And then he started for the door. "Trove went before him and stood against it. "'Hear me, boy, 'tis better that ye let him sleep until the trumpet calls an' ye both stand with all the quick an' the dead.' "'No, I have waited long, and I love--I love him,' Trove answered. "Those fair young people knelt beside the old man, clinging to his hands. "The good saint was crying. "'I came not here to bring shame,' said he presently. "'We honour and with all our souls we love you,' Trove answered. "'Who shall stand before it?' said the old man. 'Behold--behold how Love hath raised the dead!' He flung off his cap and beard. "'If ye will have it so, know ye that I--Roderick Darrel--am thy father.'" "Now, sir, you may go. I wish ye merry Christmas!" said that old man of the hills.