Robert Loring's keen eyes traveled over the manly figure of his little friend with never a smile. "Let me thank your Lordship," he said gratefully, "but I've already dined. From now on, sir, my time is yours." Lord Chesterfield grasped his arm in a spasm of excitement. "Oh, sir, Mr. Robert," he burst forth in great relief, "I am so awful glad, for there ain't a single minute to lose. Bill Flittergill, sir, he went and bust his arm a while back and oh, sir, will you come to the chapel and take his place and dress up in the Santa Claus suit and--give the presents and--and when I say like this--'Lord Chesterfield's present to Aunt Cheerful Loring with his respects!' will you just--just take off your mask when she comes up and oh--sir, _will_ you?" And Robert Loring rested one hand very gently on the boy's shoulder. "Old chap," he said huskily, "I want you to understand that I leave everything, absolutely everything to you. I've managed things long enough and it seems to me I've made a most astonishing mess of it!" So that night in Westowe Chapel a broad-shouldered Kris Kringle dispensed the Christmas gifts as the hermit directed until the glittering tree was fairly stripped and the magic box quite empty, and at last with a hoarse little quaver in his voice, Lord Chesterfield came to the final name upon his list. "Lord Chesterfield's present to Aunt Cheerful Loring!" he announced with a gulp, and, coloring with pleasure, Aunt Cheerful came hurrying up the aisle with a brisk tap! tap! of her crutch. "Now, oh, _now_, Mr. Robert!" prompted Kris Kringle's agitated helper. So with a hand that visibly shook, Robert Loring removed his beard and mask and stepped from the Christmas shadow of the pine boughs. For a tense instant Aunt Cheerful stared, stared at the smiling face of her big and gallant son with eyes so wild and startled that she seemed but a pitiful little crippled ghost swaying weakly upon her crutch, then the ever-busy crutch fell unheeded to the floor and Aunt Cheerful Loring fell sobbing to her knees, one trembling out-stretched hand clutching desperately at the ragged fur on Kris Kringle's coat as if to keep the dear apparition from fading away again before her very eyes. "Oh, Robert, oh, my dear boy!" she cried incoherently. "It--it was the Christmas pines as the gipsy said--" then in the hush that spread electrically over the little chapel, she began to shake and sob and laugh so queerly that Lord Chesterfield leaped to her side. But Robert Loring, with misty eyes, bent and gently raised his mother to her feet. "Brave, brave little mother!" he said huskily. "I did not know." Somewhere in the tear-dimmed host of friends within the chapel, a kindly voice in a wave of quick consideration for the tearful little cripple clinging so pitifully to her son, struck up the Christmas hymn and once more, that eventful Christmas Eve, the strains of "Holy Night" went sweeping out from the hill chapel over the moonlit snow. VII