"It's the best Christmas gift of all I I can hardly b'lieve it!"--touching the strong hand humbly that was held out to her. Holmes had a gentle touch, I told you, for dogs and children and women: so, sitting quietly by her, he listened with untiring patience to her long story; looked at the heap of worthless trifles she had patched up for gifts, wondering secretly at the delicate sense of color and grace betrayed in the bits of flannel and leather; and took, with a grave look of wonder, his own package, out of which a bit of woollen thread peeped forth. "Don't look till to-morrow mornin'," she said, anxiously, as she lay back trembling and exhausted. The breath of the mill! The fires of want and crime had finished their work on her life,--so! She caught the meaning of his face quickly. "It's nothin'," she said, eagerly. "I'll be strong by New-Year's; it's only a day or two rest I need. I've no tho't o' givin' up." And to show how strong she was, she got up and hobbled about to make the tea. He had not the heart to stop her; she did not want to die,--why should she? the world was a great, warm, beautiful nest for the little cripple,--why need he show her the cold without? He saw her at last go near the door where old Yare sat outside, then heard her breathless cry, and a sob. A moment after the old man came into the room, carrying her, and, laying her down on the settee, chafed her hands and misshapen head. "What ails her?" he said, looking up, bewildered, to Holmes. "We've killed her among us." She laughed, though the great eyes were growing dim, and drew his coarse gray hair into her hand. "Yoh wur long comin'," she said, weakly. "I hunted fur yoh every day,--every day." The old man had pushed her hair back, and was reading the sunken face with a wild fear. "What ails her?" he cried. "Ther' 's somethin' gone wi' my girl. Was it my fault? Lo, was it my fault?" "Be quiet!" said Holmes, sternly. "Is it _that_?" he gasped, shrilly. "My God! not that! I can't bear it!" Lois soothed him, patting his face childishly. "Am I dyin'?" she asked, with a frightened look at Holmes. He told her no, cheerfully. "I've no tho't o' dyin'. I dunnot thenk o' dyin'. Don't mind, dear! Yoh'll stay with me, fur good?" The man's paroxysm of fear for her over, his spite and cowardice came uppermost. "It's him," he yelped, looking fiercely at Holmes. "He's got my life in his hands. He kin take it. What does he keer fur me or my girl? I'll not stay wi' yoh no longer, Lo. Mornin' he'll send me t' th' lock-up, an' after"---- "I care for _you_, child," said Holmes, stooping suddenly close to the girl's livid face. "To-morrow?" she muttered. "My Christmas-day?"