"Are you daft? Don't make such a noise! You'll wake the young ones, and
I don't want them waked till need be, with no Christmas for 'em, poor
little things!"
"Never mind the young 'uns," he replied. "Come on!"
As they passed out he noticed the slip of paper under the door and
picked it up, but without comment.
He charged down upon the granary, his wife, with a shawl over her head,
close behind.
She peered in, apprehensively at first, then with eyes of widening
wonder.
"Why, Peter!" she said, turning to him. "Why, Peter! What does--I
thought--"
"You thought!" he broke in. "Me, too. But it ain't so. It means that
we've got some of the best neighbours that ever was, a thinkin' of our
young 'uns this way! Read that!" and he thrust the paper into her hand.
"Why, Peter!" she ejaculated again, weakly. Then suddenly she turned,
and laying her head on his shoulder, began to sob softly.
"There, there," he said, patting her arm awkwardly.
"Don't you go and cry now. Let's just be thankful to the good Lord for
puttin' such fellers into the world as them fellers down the road. And
now you run in and hurry up breakfast while I do up the chores. Then
we'll hitch up and get into town 'fore the stores close. Tell the young
'uns Santy didn't get round last night with their things, but we've got
word to meet him in town.
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