"What's Mr. Dillwyn got to do with it?" she asked presently.

"He's going to help," said Madge. "It's nothing but kindness. He supposes it is something good to do, and he says he'd like to be useful."

"He hain't no idea how," said Mrs. Armadale, "Poor creatur'! You can tell him, it ain't the Lord's work he's doin'."

"But we cannot tell him that, mother," said Lois.

"If the people want to have this celebration,--and they will,--hadn't we better make it a good one? Is it really a bad thing?"

"The devil's ways never help no one to heaven, child, not if they go singin' hymns all the way."

"But, mother!" cried Madge. "Mr. Dillwyn ain't a Christian, maybe, but he ain't as bad as that."

"I didn't mean Mr. Dillwyn, dear, nor no one else. I meant theatre work."

"_Santa Claus_, mother?"

"It's actin', ain't it?"

The girls looked at each other.

"There's very little of anything like acting about it," Lois said.

"'Make straight paths for your feet'!" said Mrs. Armadale, rising to go to bed. "'Make straight paths for your feet,' children. Straight ways is the shortest too. If the chil'en that don't love their teachers wants to go to the yellow church, let 'em go. I'd rather have the Lord in a little school, than Santa Claus in a big one."

She was leaving the room, but the girls stayed her and begged to know what they should do in the matter of the lists they were engaged to prepare for Mr. Dillwyn.

"You must do what you think best," she said. "Only don't be mixed up with it all any more than you can help, Lois."

Why did the name of one child come to her lips and not the other? Did the old lady's affection, or natural acuteness, discern that Mr.

Dillwyn was _not_ drawn to Shampuashuh by any particular admiration of his friend Mrs. Barclay? Had she some of that preternatural intuition, plain old country woman though she was, which makes a woman see the invisible and hear the inaudible? which serves as one of the natural means of defence granted to the weaker creatures. I do not know; I do not think she knew; however, the warning was given, and not on that occasion alone. And as Lois heeded all her grandmother's admonitions, although in this case without the most remote perception of this possible ground to them, it followed that Mr. Dillwyn gained less by his motion than he had hoped and antic.i.p.ated.

The scheme went forward, hailed by the whole community belonging to the white church, with the single exception of Mrs. Armadale. It went forward and was brought to a successful termination. I might say, a triumphant termination; only the triumph was not for Mr. Dillwyn, or not in the line where he wanted it. He did his part admirably. A better Santa Claus was never seen, nor a better filled sled. And genial pleasantness, and wise management, and cool generalship, and fun and kindness, were never better represented. So it was all through the consultations and arrangements that preceded the festival, as well as on the grand occasion itself; and Shampuashuh will long remember the time with wonder and exultation; but it was Madge who was Mr. Dillwyn's coadjutor and fellow-counsellor. It was Madge and Mrs. Barclay who helped him in all the work of preparing and ticketing the parcels for the sled; as well as in the prior deliberations as to what the parcels should be. Madge seemed to be the one at hand always to answer a question. Madge went with him to the church; and in general, Lois, though sympathizing and curious, and interested and amused, was very much out of the play. Not so entirely as to make the fact striking; only enough to leave Mr. Dillwyn disappointed and tantalized.

I am not going into a description of the festival and the show. The children sang; the minister made a speech to them, not ten consecutive words of which were listened to by three-quarters of the people. The church was filled with men, women, and children; the walls were hung with festoons and wreaths, and emblazoned with mottoes; the anthems and carols followed each other till the last thread of patience in the waiting crowd gave way. And at last came what they were waiting for--Santa Claus, all fur robes and snow and icicles, dragging after him a sledge that looked like a small mountain with the heap of articles piled and packed upon it. And then followed a very busy and delightful hour and a half, during which the business was--the distribution of pleasure. It was such warm work for Santa Claus, that at the time he had no leisure for thinking. Naturally, the thinking came afterwards.

He and Mrs. Barclay sat by her fire, resting, after coming home from the church. Dillwyn was very silent and meditative.

"You must be glad it is done, Philip," said his friend, watching him, and wishing to get at his thoughts.

"I have no particular reason to be glad."

"You have done a good thing."

"I am not sure if it is a good thing. Mrs. Armadale does not think so."

"Mrs. Armadale has rather narrow notions."

"I don't know. I should be glad to be sure she is not right. It's discouraging," he added, with half a smile;--"for the first time in my life I set myself to work; and now am not at all certain that I might not just as well have been idle."

"Work is a good thing in itself," said Mrs. Barclay, smiling.

"Pardon me!--work for an end. Work without an end--or with the end not attained--it is no better than a squirrel in a wheel."

"You have given a great deal of pleasure."

"To the children! For ought I know, they might have been just as well without it. There will be a reaction to-morrow, very likely; and then they will wish they had gone to see the Christmas tree at the other church."

"But they were kept at their own church."

"How do I know that is any good? Perhaps the teaching at the other school is the best."

"You are tired," said Mrs. Barclay sympathizingly.

"Not that. I have done nothing to tire me; but it strikes me it is very difficult to see one's ends in doing good; much more difficult than to see the way to the ends."

"You have partly missed your end, haven't you?" said Mrs. Barclay softly.

He moved a little restlessly in his chair; then got up and began to walk about the room; then came and sat down again.

"What are you going to do next?" she asked in the same way.

"Suppose you invite them--the two girls--or her alone--to make you a visit in New York?"

"Where?"

"At any hotel you prefer; say, the Windsor."

"O Philip, Philip!"--

"What?--You could have pleasant rooms, and be quite private and comfortable; as much as if you were in your own house."

"And what should we cost you?"

"You are not thinking of _that?_" said he. "I will get you a house, if you like it better; but then you would have the trouble of a staff of servants. I think the Windsor would be much the easiest plan."

"You _are_ in earnest!"

"In earnest!" he repeated in surprise. "Have you ever questioned it?

You judge because you never saw me in earnest in anything before in my life."

"No, indeed," said Mrs. Barclay. "I always knew it was in you. What you wanted was only an object."

"What do you say to my plan?"

"I am afraid they would not come. There is the care of the old grandmother; they would not leave everything to their sister alone."

"Tempt them with pictures and music, and the opera."