RUTH SAWYER DURAND

It was the night of St. Stephen, and Teig sat alone by his fire with
naught in his cupboard but a pinch of tea and a bare mixing of meal,
and a heart inside of him as soft and warm as the ice on the
water-bucket outside the door. The tuft was near burnt on the hearth--a
handful of golden cinders left, just; and Teig took to counting them
greedily on his fingers.

"There's one, two, three, an' four an' five," he laughed. "Faith, there
be more bits o' real gold hid undther the loose clay 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