The voice was completely under control now. "No. I imagine this was no case of the town-crier being sent out. When the prodigal got ready to return, under prescribed conditions--the calf was there." "I see. And has he--has Jock accepted the--conditions?" "He's gone to make--a big fight, Con. He will not take the fortune unless he wins. Filmer's got some of the old man in him, I bet." "Yes. Is--is his mother living? Has he any one to go to--out there?" "No one, Con. From what he told me, I gathered that it was to be a fight with the odds--against him." There was a long pause. A package again dropped to the floor. The girl outside stooped to gather it up; dropped two or three more, then straightened herself with an impatient exclamation. "He'll win out!" The words sounded like a rally call. With that the girl fled down the hall, trilling the merriest sort of a Christmas tune. At three o'clock St. Ange turned out in force, and set its face toward the bungalow. Leon Tate had decided that to put a cheerful front to the foe was the wiser thing to do, so he closed the Black Cat and arrayed his oily person in his best raiment, kept heretofore for the Government Inspector and Hillcrest potentates, and drove his wife himself up to Drew's fete. "Do you know," he said, as they started, "Brown Betty looks as played out as if she had been druv instead of loafing in the stable." "She do look beat," Isa agreed. "What's that in the bottom of the sled, Tate?" she suddenly asked. Tate picked it up. "Now what do you think of that?" he grunted, and held the object out at arm's length. It was a baby's tiny sock; unworn, unsoiled. The little twisted foot that had found shelter in it for so brief a time had not been a restless foot. "Give that to me," Isa said hoarsely, and tears stood in her grim eyes. "What the--what does that--mean?" "How should I know, Tate? But it set me thinking. Things often let loose ideas, you know. This being Christmas--and the stable and the manger and--and--the baby. It all fits in." Tate looked at his wife in an almost frightened way. "You mean"--he tried awkwardly to follow her confused words; "you mean--a baby has been borned in--our manger?" "Lord! Tate what are you thinking of? St. Ange may be wilder than Bethlehem in some ways, but there ain't never been no baby borned in _my_ manger." "Then what in thunder do you mean?" "Nothing, Tate"; and now the tears were actually falling from Isa's eyes. "I guess"--she strangled over her emotions--"I guess--it's more like--a flight inter Egypt--than--than--a birthday party." "Get up, Bet!" Tate was routed by the event. Finally he said slowly, "See here, old woman, I'm going to look inter that--baby boot, and don't you forget it. This ain't no time and place maybe, but Tate's going to have his senses onter any job that takes his possessions for granted. Give me--that flannel boot." "Tate--I can't." "Can't, hey?"