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Title: When Christmas Crossed "The Peace"
Date of first publication: 1923
Author: Nellie L. McClung (1873-1951)
Date first posted: Aug. 4, 2019
Date last updated: Aug. 4, 2019
Faded Page eBook #20190809

This eBook was produced by: Al Haines




[Illustration: Cover art]




  WHEN CHRISTMAS
  CROSSED "THE
  PEACE"


  BY

  NELLIE L. McCLUNG


  AUTHOR OF
  "Sowing Seeds in Danny,"
  "The Second Chance,"
  "Purple Springs," Etc.



  TORONTO
  THOMAS ALLEN
  1923




  COPYRIGHT, 1923, BY THOMAS ALLEN
  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED






  When Christmas
  Crossed
  "The Peace"

  _Bringing the Joys of Christmas
  to the North Country._


The north bank of the Peace, in its autumn dress of tawny gray, was
over-washed with the pale December sunshine, as the empty grain
wagons returning from the Crossing, leisurely wound their way through
the shaded valley below, over the gravelly road that roughly follows
the turns in the river.  Once in a while the road, emerging from the
shrubbery, comes so near the stream that a full view of its placid,
majestic, zinc-colored waters was given to the drivers; but their
thoughts were not of nature, her beauties or her moods, and not even
the mighty Peace, pursuing its even way, could lift the burden from
their souls.

Bill Lukes, leaving his horses to follow, climbed into his neighbor's
wagon, for Bill was a sociable soul, and craved the moral support
that a kindred spirit like Dad Peters could and would freely give in
this perplexing time, and the country north of the Peace had its
grievances, too, in this year of our Lord nineteen hundred and
nineteen, inasmuch as the hand of the law was laid heavily upon them.

Without preamble, the discussion began--

"I may be wrong," said Dad Peters, slowly, as he crowded the tobacco
into his pipe with a blunt forefinger, "I may be wrong"--here he
paused, as one who wishes to be fair even to an unworthy
adversary--"but"--he leaned closer to his friend, as if the afternoon
air might carry his words farther than he intended them to
go--"but--I blame the whole thing on these darned women!"

Bill Lukes, his friend, threw out his hands in disagreement.

"What have they to do with it?" he said in surprise.

"Lots!" said Dad.  "Lots!  Look!  They've got a society now at the
Crossing, another at the Waterhole, another at Spirit River.  They
get speakers from Edmonton, and travellin' libraries.  Then comes the
nurses! livin' alone too, and that's no way for young women to live!
They tell the women what they should have, and shouldn't have.  Take
my woman.  She's lost four kids already .... always was
resigned--always said it was the Lord's will .... but now you should
hear her .... She used hard words ... bitter words ... harsh words,
the last time it was mentioned, said it was my fault for not bringin'
the doctor--and all that!"

His friend nodded sympathetically.  "Maybe so--maybe you're right,"
he said, "maybe they've done it, I always knew no good would come of
lettin' them vote.  It upsets the home--I always said it would.  But
I don't just see how they could be at the bottom of this."

"O you don't see--don't you?" said Dad Peters, scornfully, "Can they
write--or can they not?  Have they education, Bill--did you never
happen to notice--I'll say they have!  Could they send a letter
unknown to us--or could they send word by some of these foreign
speakers--I'll say they could--And then here comes this young
upstart--twenty-five years old maybe--no more--with the yellow stripe
down his pant-leg--and he'll clean up the whole country--will he?"

"It looks as if he will," said his friend gloomily, "I was in at
Barr's yesterday, and when I asked Jim if it wasn't about time for a
drink--he twisted his face up until I thought he was going into a
fit, and when I asked him where it hurt him, he crossed behind me
quick and kind of hissed in my ear--'the house is haunted,' he says,
and then I caught on that the new policeman was standin' in the door,
with a grin on his face.  I could have knocked him down."

"A pity you didn't," said Dad, indignantly, "served him right if you
had--what right has this young pup to come here and arrest decent
men, who ain't doin' no harm?"

"It's the law, Dad," said Bill, sadly.  "It's the law--the law says a
man can't buy liquor for drinking purposes; he can buy it to run his
machinery, or preserve snakes--or shampoo his hair or clean his
clothes or polish his glasses."

"O shut up!" said Dad, indignantly, "no one wastes good liquor them
ways.  But what I says is this: Up north here we're bound to be
different--it's a cold country--and it's a lonesome country--a man
needs somethin' to warm him and somethin' to cheer him.  What is
there that both cheers and warms!--and at the same time does no harm?
.... In summer there's the flies, and sometimes the terrible
heat--nothin' helps a man through like a little nip two or three
times a day, .... all right.....  This man comes along, and because
he finds a bottle or two he seizes them,--that's bad enough,--but he
fines the man that has them.  It ain't reason--and it ain't fair--and
here's the worst of it, Bill--he has no respect for God or man--he
even found liquor in the magistrate's house, and made trouble!"

"He didn't!"

"He did--sure.  If any place should have been safe, it was the
magistrate's house.  What's our institutions comin' to when a
magistrate's house even can be searched.  Well, they tell me he
confiscated what he found--and you know yourself Bill, it was prime
good stuff that the magistrate always kept--but it's gone!  There's
no hope of getting a drop now, and in two weeks it's Christmas!  It
will be a lonesome one in these parts."  Bill Lukes thoughtfully
stroked his chin, on which a three weeks' growth of whiskers resisted
the free passage of his hand!

"It's sure tough, Dad.  Ain't there no way?  What's wrong with goin'
to the Crossin'--the policemen there are good fellows--and bringin'
out some,--the other towns ain't safe, I know--but the Crossin'?

"I've had all I want to do with the law," said Dad, dejectedly--"when
I paid my fine...."

"I didn't know he had caught you, too, Dad!" exclaimed his friend.

"When I paid my fine--the magistrate made it as easy as he could--and
says he, 'Mr. Peters, I have no option but to fine you,' says he; and
he reminded me--the young pup did--that the next offence was jail!"

"But, Dad--we could keep him busy down our way--and you could slip
down to the Crossin' just the day before, and bring it out,
pretending it was Christmas things--or something."

"You don't say!" cried Dad, "sounds awful easy to hear you tell
it,--and who'd take my place when I was sent to jail?  No sir!  I
don't fancy it.  This fellow is a darned crook--anyway, he must be,
or he wouldn't know everyone's business so well.  Tom Sneddon had a
few bottles hid in a load of hay .... he found it!  John Wallace had
his box sent in as usual marked 'Books' just as he had always done,
and it always came through every other time--but this time, though
there wasn't anything dreepin' from it nor nothin' to excite
suspicions--just a plain box of books, he nabbed it.  The undertaker
shipped in a few coffins last week, gettin' ready for the winter
trade, and he went through them! as quick as they were put off the
train.  That's what I call insultin' the dead!"

"Did he find anythin' in the coffins?" asked Bill, eagerly.

"Sure, he found it--ain't I tellin' you--he found it--there's nothin'
safe or sacred any more--we might as well give up--and settle down to
ginger tea."

"Give up nothin'!" said Bill Lukes, "surely one policeman can't run
all this country north of the Peace.  Darn it all--he can't be
everywhere at once!  We've got the money and we'll have it for
Christmas, anyway.  I'll bet Bill Adams ain't afraid of him--Old Bill
will talk up to him!"

"Bill Adams has been sick," said Dad gloomily, "he's been down with
pneumonia, I hear, with the nurse waitin' on him.  He's gettin'
better though--they say the nurse scrubbed his house--and then
scrubbed him, in spite of all he could say."

"Well, that wouldn't hurt Bill, none."

"No, but I'll bet it was an awful comedown on a man like Bill, that's
never had it to bear, to be bossed around by a woman.  It's different
with us, we're sort of hardened to it, but Bill has led a free and
happy life.  He's never had his spirit broke like some of us, and I
guess that's why he isn't as easily scared as we are.  Bill Adams may
be willin' to risk it."

"He's our last chance, as you might say."


While Dad Peters and friend Bill Lukes were discussing the arid
conditions of the land of their adoption, the same subject was being
taken up from another angle in the home of the latter.

In the big kitchen, the early twilight of the December day was
reflected in the face of the tall woman who kneaded her bread on the
long, unpainted table.  Her movements were slow and hopeless.  She
wore a flannelette wrapper, as faded and anemic as herself, and as
she worked she sighed deeply.

Sitting on a stool, made of tomato cans and covered with gaily
flowered cretonne, her daughter was peeling potatoes--and taking a
delight in peeling them, much deeper than was necessary, just as a
protest against prevailing conditions.  All her life, she thought,
she had "peeled thin," and what good had it done.  Madge Lukes threw
back her mop of red hair indignantly.  There was rebellion in every
movement.

"It's no use, Madge," her mother began, in a voice as colorless as
her face, "it's no use--there will be no Christmas this year--the
weather has gone against us somewhat, and your pa is that cross
there's no livin' with him!  Let us just get on with him in the
easiest way--it's the best way, after all."

The resignation in her voice, the pathetic droop of her mouth, was
like a spark in the long dry grass.  Madge's eyes flamed with
indignation, and two brilliant spots of color burned in her cheeks.

"Ma, you're too dead easy with him, you've lost all your pep these
last two or three years.  I remember when you used to stand up to
him, but now you're so darned full of resignation, you make me tired.
You're just as much to blame as he is--always takin' the quiet way
because it's easiest.  Why don't you ever stand up to him like you
used to?"

Mrs. Lukes stopped her work, and looked wide-eyed, at the furious
face of her daughter.  "O Madge," she managed to say, "don't talk
like that."

"I will talk," cried Madge, "and you'd be better if you talked more.
What right has he to hog up every cent--and blow it in for his own
pleasure, and then get so cross when he's sobering up, that we can't
live with him--you work for this money--so do I--so do the boys--but
he has the spendin' of it--you've been too blamed easy, Ma."

Mrs. Lukes mechanically attempted the defense of her husband, "You
shouldn't talk that way, Madge, about your pa and me,--we've done the
best we could, only we've had some trials too these past years, and
we've kinda lost heart, and if he gets a little off once in a while,
you mustn't blame him.  It's just so he can forget all his troubles."
...

"O, is that it?" said Madge, "Ma, you sure are easy--you'd make
excuses for the devil--if he was here!  That's why is it?  Why did he
drink in the good years, then?  Why does he drink every chance he
gets?  Oh, I know it keeps him hot in winter and cool in summer,
keeps him dry when it rains and from being parched when it don't
rain, makes him better when he is sick, and keeps him from getting
sick.  But, it doesn't keep him from making fool bargains, and giving
away things when he goes to sell them.  It doesn't keep him from
being so cross that Bill couldn't stand him, and left home.  We've
been here five years, and we've all worked harder than he has, but he
handles the money, and doesn't even give himself a good time with it.
Now, Ma, you may be willing to slave all your life, but I'm not.  I
see nothing ahead but hard work and sour looks, and I won't stand it."

Mrs. Lukes began to cry, with her face twisting pitifully, but
without a sound.  Madge, whose back was to her, did not see.
"There's no fight left in me, Madge, I'm beat--clean beat," she said
at last, through her sobs.  "I have fought and fought, and there's no
good in it.  It's better just to quit fightin'; it's like that piece
of paper out there, caught on the fence, flappin' in the wind.  Small
good its flappin' does it--it just tears itself to pieces--that's all
it does; that's just like me--only I've quit--I'm done flappin'!"

Madge sprang to her feet and threw her arms around her mother's
heaving shoulders.

"Don't cry, ma," she cried, "it will be all right; I'm a brute to
talk to you that way--I just got too sore for a minute.  I didn't
mean what I said about not standing it--Sure I will, I'll stick by
you ma--I'm all that you have now, that's any help, and I'll sure
stay until the kids are all raised anyway--you bet I will, I won't
leave my ma!"

"You're young, Madge," said her mother, patting her back gently with
her rough hand, "and I wouldn't blame you--there's not much life for
you here--I've often thought lately that there's a sort of curse on
people that venture too far.  We had no need to come so far, when
there was lots of land back home--but he would come--and I have been
easy--just as you say--but there's a curse I know it, on them that's
too venturesome.  We're too far a way here, too far--we're behind
God's back--he can't see us at all, and all sort of evil spirits get
in their bad work on us, and God doesn't know.  I see it when the
northern lights hiss out at me like a nest of snakes, and even the
cows, I ketch whisperin' behind my back when they don't think I know
whisperin' and mockin' at me, and wantin' to tell me something--and
there's noises in the house at night, wantin' to warn me about
somethin'--I hear them--but I won't answer them--It's best not to
answer them--I'm hopin' they will give it up if I don't answer them!
They always get worse at Christmas, tauntin' me that my children have
never known a Christmas since we came up here.  They tell me there's
no Christmas, north of the Peace and there never will be.  They mock
us, and remind me of the fun I had when I was a little girl--back in
Nova Scotia.  We always had a Christmas tree, with candles and clove
apples, and tissue paper balls, and a doll for the little girls.  But
here there's nothin' but hard work and sour looks.  Christmas will
never cross the Peace!"

Madge's eyes were filled with alarm as she listened.  Never before
had she heard her mother speak such words, and a grim possibility now
stared her in the face.  But with characteristic wisdom, she gave no
indication of her fears, but began to talk about other things.

"It's gettin' in on ma," she thought, in horror, "she's goin'
queer--she's slippin'.  Well, now, there has to be something
done--and done quick!"

Her first thought, in her hour of need, was the nurse, Miss Downey
would know!


Across the fields of grass and poplar scrub from the Lukes' home, and
about a mile distant, stood the nurse's house, with a grove of poplar
trees sheltering it from the north-west; a roughly built house of
logs, with long windows in each side, and half-sized ones in the
ends, with the smoke curling bravely up from its rusty stove pipe,
for the nurse was "at home," during a temporary lull in the condition
of the neighborhood's health.

A fire burned cheerfully in the big wood range, and a small tea
kettle threatened to dislodge its lid, in its bubbling exuberance.
The nurse set it back on the stove, where its boiling died slowly
away, but suddenly changing her mind she put it back on the very
hottest place, where it caught up its speed again, and burst into a
thunder of bubbles.

"I like the sound of it," she said, as if in explanation.  "There are
not too many cheerful sounds in this house, though I'll never admit
that I am lonesome--a nurse must never be lonesome, sick or tired;
that's the first lesson.  Diana! do you hear me?  I'm following out
your instructions."  She addressed a large text-book, over which she
had spent many hours in her days of training, which occupied the
position of honor on the "library" table.

The nurse's home was divided into four rooms, although no such
partitions were visible to the human eye.  But Miss Downey, strong in
youth and imagination, saw in her one big room, a living room,
clearly defined by the library table filled with books, the Morris
chair beside it, placed well under the bracket lamp on the wall, and
on the floor the one and only rug.  The kitchen could be located
easily by the presence of the range, a small table, and on the wall a
row of shining tins.  The bedroom and dispensary were harder to
distinguish, for their boundaries overlapped in a confusing way.

The bed itself was screened from view, by curtains of blue, dyed to
match the table runner--but the dressing room consisting of one
mirror and one packing box, also draped in blue, was clearly a part
of the dispensary, for, below the blue curtains, stood bottles and
boxes and packages whose pervading odor was faintly reminiscent of
hospitals.

"I'll light both lamps," said Miss Downey, as she rolled up her
blinds and tied the crochet rope below, "so any one who passes will
know I am at home and will drop in, and now for the Elijah box, and
see what my supplies are!"

Behind the house, and sheltered in summer by trees, stood the
improvised refrigerator, made by sinking a box in the ground, there
being no difficulty at this season of the year about keeping it cool.
Removing the stone, which kept the lid in place, Miss Downey beheld
the offerings of her grateful patients.  One chicken, ready to serve,
one bottle of cream, one roll of butter, a jar of pickles.  Inside
she had found bread and potatoes, two pies and a cake, left by
anonymous contributors.  So there seemed to be no reason to fear that
unexpected company would cause any embarrassment.

Returning to the house, she put the chicken in the oven and prepared
a pot of potatoes, and set her table.

"There will surely be some one over to see how Bill Adams is," she
said hopefully, as she set out her best cups and saucers, "when they
see the light and know I am home," but the night came on black and
starless, and in spite of the beacons which gleamed from each window,
no one came, and she was compelled to eat her chicken dinner alone.

When she went back to the refrigerator to replace the part of the
chicken her visitors should have eaten, she saw the northern lights
that were darting and shooting across the sky with tongues of violet,
amber and opal, and with a rustling sound like the crumpling of silk,
folding and unfolding, creeping and rushing in a way that fascinated,
yet awed her, and when Tinker-Bell, her little dog, who followed her
everywhere, turned her little nose skyward and broke into a dismal
cry Miss Downey sought the shelter of the house, with its reassuring
warmth and light.

But the north window drew her, and putting out the lamps, she stood
gazing in wrapt attention at the panorama of the sky.

"Now they look like pink-edged sheets on the line, in a perfect
gale," she said, "and if they are not taken in, that fancy edge will
soon be nothing but a fringe!  And now they are advancing like the
cadets at school" .... and unconsciously she began to sing the
marching song which she had so often played at home .... "and here
come the girls in white in a fan drill, with pink and blue sashes,
with the colored lights on them.  They will be training for Christmas
now, every one will be there but me!"

Then a blur of homesickness shut out the glory of the sky, and the
brave Miss Downey, so calm and resolute and determined to obey
Diana's precepts, came as near to tears as a self-respecting nurse
can come .... over her own griefs!


Suddenly, outside, Tinker-Bell began to bark in sharp little staccato
yelps, as if she could not find words to express her excitement.
"Here is something that will surprise you," she seemed to telegraph
back, and so impressed was her mistress with the note of honesty in
Tinker-Bell's voice that she lighted both lamps and hastily arranged
her hair at the glass, and dabbed a little powder on her nose, to be
ready for anything.

Soon a clatter of horse's hoofs, mingled with the dog's bark, and a
heavy knock sounded on her door.

She flung it hospitably open, and beheld a young man in uniform, who
politely bade her "good evening" and waited for her invitation to
enter.

The invitation came readily for she was glad to see any one, any one
to whom she could talk, and as she stirred the fire, she asked her
visitor if she could not offer him something to eat.

"Don't start me off unless you have plenty on hand," he laughed,
showing a fine set of teeth, "for I haven't had anything for twelve
hours."

"Why, where have you been?" she asked in surprise.

"I am on my way to the Crossing," he said, "from Spirit River, and
there's some sort of an agreement, it seems, that they won't feed
me--I am Sergeant Woods of the A.P.P., and I guess I am in wrong with
the men, anyway, for I have been rounding up the bootleggers.  But
even women turned me down to-day."

His face was so solemn and rueful, the nurse laughed in spite of
herself.

"Surely not," she said.

"You bet they do.  The last house I went to was Bill Luke's over
here, and that poor, white-faced, stoop-shouldered wife of his said
to me, 'I wouldn't dare to let you come in--pa wouldn't like it.'
But the girl spoke up--I guess pa hasn't got her subdued, and said,
'go to the nurse's house--she is at home, and she'll feed you, she's
not afraid of anything, and she's got lots of grub on hand.  So if
you are not afraid, and if you have lots of grub on hand, we can
proceed--I can do the rest."

When Sergeant Woods had satisfied his hunger, he looked at her
quizzically.

"Do you know what I am wondering?"

"No," she said.

"How you come to be here, a young girl like you, in this wild place."

"It's not wild," she said, "and I'm not young.  I was three years
overseas, and I am a graduate nurse."

"Well, you're young," he re-affirmed, "and you are living alone."

"I'm not very much alone," she corrected him.  "I board
around--though generally I get home at night if I am not too far
away.  I have been away three nights now, but that was because I had
a bad case that I couldn't leave."

"Where were you?" he asked.

"I was with Bill Adams."

An exclamation broke from him.  "Bill Adams!" he cried, "the worst
old soak in the country.  Do you mean you stayed in his shanty--that
dirty little hole?"

"O, you should see it now," she said proudly, "and you should see
Bill.  I shaved him, trimmed his hair, gave him the first bath he
ever had, and cleaned his house!"

He looked at her with increasing wonder.  "That's no work for a
woman," he cried.

"Well, have you seen any man volunteering for the job?"

"No," he said, "and I won't be likely to."

"You see, Mr. Adams was a very sick man, delirious and threatened
with pneumonia."

"Off on a bat, I suppose," he said, quickly.

"Very likely, anyway he was very sick.  I did not probe the past, and
he was very repentant."

"The old bounder."

"Aren't you glad he was repentant?" she said, opening her eyes very
wide.  "And he told me all his story.  He was a member of parliament
once--and studied for the ministry."

"Church and state have both had their deliverances!"

"And he is going to remember me in his will!--and he called me
'Dolly' when he was delirious, and he said I was an angel."

"Well, I am glad the old rascal hits the truth once in a while," said
Sergeant Woods, gallantly.

She laughed light-heartedly, with a color in her cheeks that made the
whole room glow.

"What does he say about this bootlegging business that he has been
carrying on?"

"We argued quite a bit about that," she confessed, "you see Mr. Adams
claims that he is doing a real service in bridging the gap--as he
says, between the thirsty homesteader and the supply.  He says in
this cold climate, so far away and so lonesome, people need
something.  He says it transmutes this dull existence, changing drab
to rose.  Those were his words, and he says if the women would drink,
too, it would be better for them, and he spoke nicely of you.  He
said you were an officious young man, who took the law seriously, but
he said you would find just as he had found, that human nature could
not be changed by laws, and quoted 'The Kasidah' of somebody, to
prove he was right.  He says no one has a right to interfere with
another, and quoted this verse:

  "'Do what thy manhood bids thee do,
  From none but self expect applause;
  He noblest lives and noblest dies
  Who makes and keeps his self-made laws.'"


The sergeant made a gesture of impatience:

"That is another way of saying 'Do what you like, mind your own
business and let the world go to the devil if it wants to.'  That's
an easy philosophy, if a person has neither heart or conscience."

"I told him that," said the nurse, "Oh, I told him, and I rubbed it
in by asking him where he would have been if I had simply minded my
own business and left him alone to mind his."

"And what did he say to that?"

"He said, 'Hell,' and I didn't contradict him; I told him he got it
right the first guess!"

"But aren't you afraid?" said the Sergeant, "going into such places
and dealing with such people?  Have you no fear?"

"Of course I have," she said, "I'm often afraid I won't arrive in
time, or that I'll fall asleep when I should stay awake and to-night
I was afraid I had not enough chicken for you, and I am often
afraid--this is my biggest fear--that I'll get lonesome--dead
lonesome--and chuck it all and go home."

"That's what I'd do," he said decidedly.

"You would not," said the nurse, shaking her head, "you've a harder
job than mine, but you stick, because you think you should."

"I just can't make you out," he said again, "you are too young and
too pretty to be wasting your life out here.  You could practice your
profession just as well in a city--and have some of the pleasures of
life."

"I know," she said, simply, "I suppose I could, but I've changed my
mind on what constitutes pleasures.  I got that overseas--just as you
did--I want a hard job, a real job--I liked cleaning up Old Bill
Adams.  It's great to get really next to people, and change the
current of their thoughts.  He felt like a different man when I was
through with him, and put clean sheets on his bed, and clean pillow
cases, and a Red Cross night shirt on him.  It comforts me to be able
to do this.  I also like their grateful words."

"Are they always grateful?" he asked wistfully.

"Not always, at first they rebel.  Old Bill said he'd be hanged
before he'd let me wash him.  I told him the hangman would have to
hurry then, for the water was nearly ready.  He grumbled all the
time, but I didn't mind.  I just scrubbed all the harder.  But they
are all pitiably grateful afterwards."

"I should say they would be," he said, with a face full of
admiration, "you're a wonder, I'll say!"

Then he knitted his brows thoughtfully.

"My work is different," he said, after a pause, "I am a spoil-fun--a
blight--they think I am just trying to spite them.  With you, all is
well, for they don't want to be sick, but they are sore on me, for
they do not want to be good, and I am as tired of the job as they
are, if they only knew it."

"Why do you stay, then?" she asked.  She wanted to tell him that she
was equally curious about his choice of work.

His jaw set squarely, and there was a look in his eyes that to her
quick understanding answered her question without words.

"I'm not going to fall down on the job now that I've started.....  It
isn't just that either.  It seems too bad to let these bootleggers
degrade the settlers--for the sake of money--to peddle this awful
stuff in this country where the people have endured so much,
especially the women.  Pioneering is surely tough on the women, and
when their men sag down and drink, and so become de-socialized,
there's nothing left for them.  No wonder they go crazy!  I often
think what a hell a woman's life is, when she has to live with a
drunken man--slobbering, dirty, foul-mouthed, with the subsequent
ill-temper and the gradual degeneracy.  It isn't coming to these
women, after all they've come through..."

"I like the game, too, matching my wits against theirs....  and I
have been able to put the fear of the law into most of them, too, all
but your old Bill.  I would have had him, too, for I caught him
red-handed, but the magistrate, who is a friend of the whole gang,
said I hadn't the right number of his section, and let him go.  But
I'll land him yet!  They are determined to have a blow-out on
Christmas, and the gang at the Crossing are going to supply it.  They
have barrels of it cached there somewhere--I am going there to look
around and see if I can find it.  If you can keep old Bill in bed
until after Christmas, it may help, for he has been the go-between, I
understand.  He receives contributions from all the thirsty ones, and
then makes as good a bargain as he can with the gang at the
Crossing--and keeps the change.  So, keep him bed-fast, will you, in
the interest of a sober Christmas?"

"I don't believe I can hold him that long," she said.  "He proposed
this morning before I left--that's a sure sign of returning health!"

"The old devil!"

"O, he did it very nicely, with quotations from Omar Khayyam and the
Kasidah!  It was really very sweet about the loaf of bread and the
jug of wine underneath a bough."

"Then you don't mind proposals?"

"No--not from sick men--professionally--we consider it a good sign."

He looked at her again, with his quizzical smile.

"I'm not feeling real well myself to-night," he said, laughing--

* * *

The next day, Miss Downey received a hurried visit from Madge Lukes,
who burst in, with dishevelled hair and burning cheeks, and with eyes
full of terror:

"Ma's had a breakdown, Miss Downey," she cried, "and is actin' queer."

Miss Downey began to pack her little black valise.

"Tell me what she is doing, Madge."

"She's working around just the same, but she's talkin' to herself all
about Christmas, and what she will get on the tree, and all that.
She's just gone kind of queer and childish, and pa is scared stiff.
He wishes now he had let her go to Edmonton to the convention, when
she wanted to, but he said then there wasn't any money to spend that
way.  She's just like a child, Miss Downey, and it's terrible to see
her."

"I'll go over with you, Madge," said Miss Downey.  "Now don't let her
think you notice anything wrong."

When they reached the house and went quietly in, there came to the
ears a sound of singing, a rhythmical chant with a hand-clapping
accompaniment, that brought Miss Downey back, it seemed a hundred
years, back to the old, old days before the war, when all the world
was young.

  "This is the way we comb our hair,
  Comb our hair, comb our hair,
  This is the way we comb our hair

Early on Sunday morning." chanted Mrs. Lukes, rocking herself and
clapping her hands, with every appearance of enjoyment, and entirely
oblivious of her surroundings.

  "This is the way we tie our shoes,
  Tie our shoes, tie our shoes"

sang the nurse, with appropriate motions.

Mrs. Lukes took it up eagerly: "I couldn't remember what came next,"
she said, beginning to sing again.

"Now, listen," said the nurse, drawing a chair up in front of her
patient, "we must get ready for the Christmas tree, everyone will do
something, and we must get the baking done for the supper.  How many
chickens can you get ready?"

Mrs. Lukes looked bewildered for a moment, and then, throwing back
her tangled grey hair, said to Madge, "How many can we promise,
mother?  Mother always does a lot," she added, in a whisper to the
nurse.

"All right," said the nurse, "but you must help her, it won't do to
leave her all the work, she's not very strong, you know."

"O, I love to get ready for Christmas," she cried, clapping her rough
hands together in delight, and fairly beaming with excitement, but
teacher, hear me say my piece:

  "This is the way we wash our clothes,
  Wash our clothes, wash our clothes,
  This is the way we wash our clothes,
  Early on Monday morning."


"That's fine," said the nurse, stroking her work-worn hands,
tenderly, "now help all you can with the chickens."

Out in the kitchen, Madge held to the nurse in a paroxysm of terror.

"Is she goin' to die, nurse--for if she is, it's all my fault I
scolded her yesterday some thing awful for being so easy on pa, and
she broke down and cried, and said she was plain beat, and had no
fight left in her, and then this morning she began to talk about
Christmas, and all the fun they had at home when they were all young,
and she just talked on and on, and for a long time I was likin' to
hear her so full of talk, but all at once I saw her eyes were starin'
queer, and then she began to sing like you heard her.  Will she die,
nurse, oh nurse, will she die?"

"No, she won't die," said the nurse calmly, "she'll be all right,
Madge, but we've got to have a real Christmas, a great big bubbling,
sparkling Christmas, full of excitement and surprises, with candles
and sparklers and drums and candy and mysterious parcels; where every
one sings and dances and shouts and laughs and forgets their
troubles.  We've just got to, Madge!  Harness your best horse for me,
Madge, I am going around the neighborhood to invite everyone to the
hall for Christmas night, and to get all the women to start to cook.
This is going to be one grand occasion, Madge, and you and I will
have to see it through.  Don't be frightened, Madge, I'm full of hope
that it will bring your mother right and save the other women from
going queer!  They haven't enough excitement in their lives, and it
just gets them!"

The round of the settlement which Miss Downey made, revealed the fact
that a Christmas celebration was just exactly what the people wanted,
and hams and chicken were eagerly volunteered, also pies and cake.
The supper was easily arranged for; the program to follow, was more
difficult, though Fred Ross reported that there were two great
singers, a man and his wife from Winnipeg, just come to Wintering
Hills, and he would try to get word to them to come over.  Donald
Ross, under the witchery of the nurse's smile, offered to do the
Highland Fling if anybody would lilt for him, and Miss Downey agreed
to be responsible for the music.  There was a young Englishman,
lately come to do the chores at Wilson's, who could sing, and another
one of whom he knew, would play the concertina.  Mrs. Peters knew a
girl who could whistle, and she would get word to her somehow.

After her fifty mile drive, and her hard talking, it was late that
night when Miss Downey got back to her house, and it was a tired, but
happily excited nurse who crawled into bed behind the blue curtains;
with Tinker-Bell, beating the floor with her foolish little stubby
tail, offering congratulations on the day's work.


When the bright light of another morning poured into the room, Miss
Downey awakened with a sense of heavy responsibility.  There were so
many difficulties.  How could she ever make the bare hall look like
Christmas!  Her tour of investigation had revealed that there was in
the neighborhood one flag, belonging to the school, a few sheets of
tissue paper, now in the hands of the school children, being turned
into flowers and balls; a red cashmere shawl which could be draped
over the box on which the Christmas tree would stand, two dozen
candles that would help to light the tree.  But what to put on it,
and where to get any music?  And how to be sure that the people would
get out?  Black walls of trouble rose before her, as she lay watching
the morning sun-shine which made a bright patch on the floor.

But when she got on her feet, and set a fire in the range, she was
herself again, resourceful, self-reliant, full of youth and optimism.

Of Sergeant Woods, she had seen nothing, and wondered if he had yet
returned from the Crossing.  Unconsciously she found herself
arranging the meal she would have when he came again, and as the day
passed without a sick summons she was glad to be at home to give a
welcome, she told herself, to "anyone who happened to come."

Madge had come over to tell her that her mother was still happily
rehearsing her "piece," and cooking for the Christmas supper.

Two days before the eventful day the news was brought to her by Madge
that Bill Adams was "out," and she thought he had gone to the
Crossing on his usual errand, for Madge said her father had made some
excuse about having to go to Dunvegan and would not be able to come
to the hall on Christmas night.  She feared that the men had arranged
their gathering place where Bill would bring them the "goods," and
the Christmas celebration would go on as in previous years.

On hearing this, a wave of rage filled the nurse's heart.  This,
then, was all they cared for their families, or their happiness.  She
wished now, just for a brief moment, that she had let old Bill
die--it would have made a happier Christmas in the settlement, but
that thought passed, and in its place there came a happier one; old
Bill Adams had not got the liquor yet, and maybe he wouldn't get it,
the whole supply might yet be discovered and seized.  The picture of
Sergeant Woods as he had sat by her fireside a week ago, so
square-jawed, clear-eyed and resolute, came back with a reassurance
that warmed her heart.  She was not fighting alone!  She believed he
was still at the Crossing, waiting for just this contingency!

It was four o'clock that afternoon, just as the pale yellow winter
sun was settling behind the grove of trees, that a wagon came up to
her door.

"Somebody sick," she said, with a sinking heart.  For once she had no
joy in her profession, a "case" might take her to the other side of
her district.  But as she looked, she saw that the sick one this time
had come to her, for the driver carefully removing the robes, was
preparing to lift some one from the wagon.

She was beside him in a moment.

"It's the policeman, Miss," said Dad Peters, with ill-concealed
enjoyment, "broke his leg on Brick's hill, his horse rolled over on
him, hard lines, too, right in his busy time, but he was dischargin'
his duty when it happened, weren't you, Sergeant, trying to keep the
north bank of the Peace dry!  But fate went against you, didn't it
Sergeant?  We sort of thought this was the best place to bring him,
Nurse.  Bill Adams said he was a lucky dog, and he only wished he was
in his place."

The sergeant groaned, as they laid him on the nurse's bed; there was
bitter disappointment on his face.

"Go over and get Madge Lukes," said the nurse, in her even voice,
"I'll need her to help me to set this leg, and tell her to bring over
a horse, I want her to do something else for me."

Mr. Peters was in such an amiable mood, he would do anything.  Fate
had been kind beyond his dreams.

"Certainly, Miss, anything else?"

"Nothing else," said Miss Downey, "thank you, only be sure to tell
everyone about our Christmas entertainment.  We want everyone there.
And now a Merry Christmas, Mr. Peters, and don't fail to come and
bring all the family, we want to make this a great day for the
children."

Mr. Peter's face revealed a flicker of embarrassment as he went out.

"Well, girl!" said the patient as she threw aside the curtains and
began to remove his overcoat.  "I fell down on my job, didn't I? and
those damned rascals have the laugh on me!"

She had her most professional air now, as she sterilized her hands.

"I found out where the cache was, and was just on my way to seize it,
when my horse broke through into a badger hole on Brick's hill, and
falling on my leg, on the frozen ground, smashed it below the knee.
Old Bill, accompanied by Dad Peters, found me, and lectured me
soundly on the whimsical ways of fate.  Now look, is there any way we
can head off this old rascal?  Can you think of anything--I've made a
mess of it.  Can you think of anything?"

"Sure, I can," said Miss Downey, as she arranged the splints on her
library table.  "I have it all thought out."

"Well, for God's sake get at it," he cried, sitting up.  "Don't mess
around here with me.  It has to be done in a hurry if you are going
to stop it.  He may get his supply in the next six hours."

"No hurry," said the girl, quietly.  "Your leg must be set first.
You see I am a nurse by profession, and a moral reformer and
community leader only in my spare time.  Just now I have one thought,
one care, that is you."

When the leg was set, and Madge Lukes instructed as to what to give
him to eat, Miss Downey suddenly retired to the dispensary and
dressing room, carrying the police uniform, cap, boots and all.  When
she came back she was fully dressed, and as she put the revolver in
her holster, she said, "I'm glad you are not any bigger; I can stuff
this coat out with my sweater, it doesn't look so bad, does it?"

She revolved slowly, to give him a complete view.  Her golden hair
was completely hidden by the cap.

The sergeant, wide-eyed, raised himself on his pillow, at the sound
of her voice, then fell back in astonishment.

"I'm Sergeant Downs, a friend of yours, who came to spend Christmas
with you," said the nurse, quietly, "now tell me where the cache is,
and I'll see if I can head off my old friend before he reaches it, or
failing that, to meet him coming back, and seize his load."

The sergeant seized her hands impulsively.  "Oh, girl," he cried,
"you're a wonder!"

* * *

With Sergeant Woods well out of the way, the pathway of Bill Adams in
his official capacity of bootlegger for the north bank of the Peace,
was singularly free from danger, and when he saw his friend Dad
Peters driving away with the helpless sergeant in the bottom of his
wagon the old man's soul was lifted on the wings of song.  From his
brief but varied experience of studying for the ministry, little
remained but his knowledge of hymnology.  From it now he drew deep
consolation, and out upon the quiet roadside there floated out a real
paean of praise:

  "God moves in a mysterious way
  His wonders to perform;
  He plants His footsteps in the sea
  And rides upon the storm."


He stopped many times on the road to tell the joyful news that the
young sergeant had broken his leg, and thus the last barrier between
the dwellers on the north bank, and perfect happiness, was removed,
and Christmas would be Christmas once again, and many of the
home-bound travellers went laughing on their way.

The short winter afternoon soon drew to a close, and a darkness only
relieved by the northern lights, fell on the road.  Sergeant Downs,
urging her horse to a gallop, quickly covered the distance, until the
long hill at Allie Brick's made her slacken her pace.

Down in the valley a dog barked, with re-assuring sound, and as she
walked her horse down the long hill, she had ample time to lay plans.
To catch up to Bill, follow him to the cache, under cover of the
night, then arrest him red-handed, and make the seizure, seemed to be
the simplest course, and yet the problem of what to do with the
liquor bothered her.

Then she began to think that Bill, so notorious was he for crooked
dealing, would have to hand over the money to the Peace River dealer
before he would even be told where the liquor was, and this thought
took hold of her so strongly that she determined to push on with all
speed to the Crossing.

Her hypothesis proved to be the correct one.  She caught up to him at
the river, and crossed on the ice just behind him, and passing him
going up the bank, called a cheery "goodnight" just to be sure she
was not mistaken.

The answer came back in Bill's voice, very cheerful and very much
like a benediction.  Bill's heart was light and gladsome.

They reached the livery barn about the same time, and succeeded in
rousing the man who slept in the hay-loft, who came down the ladder
in a drowsy and ill-natured mood: "Pity you folks can't travel by
daylight," he grumbled.

"Christmas time, my dear fellow," cried Bill, slapping him on the
back, "and all that Christmas means of good fellowship and cheer,
where spirits blend and friend holds fellowship with friend.  Don't
be of a sour temper at Christmas, good fellow of mine, are we not
awake too at this late hour, each pursuing our own course, hoping to
find happiness--my young friend here, whose horse shows evidence of
hard riding, no doubt pursues the same elusive fairy, and I trust
with the same hope of finding her.  Hope of happiness moves the world
to-day."

"O, all right, Bill, all right," he said, quite mollified when he saw
who it was, "I'll see you around to-morrow, I suppose."

"O, sure," said Bill, genially, "looking up a few of my old friends,
you know; 'blest be the tie that binds our hearts in Christian love.'"

The sergeant had tied her horse in the stall, and in kicking the
bedding under him, the livery man's sharp eye caught the gleam of the
yellow stripe in the murky light of the stable lantern, and gave the
alarm by a loud cough.

Bill Adams' tone at once became studiously careless, as he replied:

"I expect to be very busy to-morrow, buying a few things, commissions
from all the neighbors, you know, we are so far out, our people don't
get in often, and whoever comes to town is loaded down with errands.
Nobody minds that, though, for at Christmas time, by Jove, all the
pores of a man's heart are open, you know."

Suddenly a feeling of fear smote Nurse Downey's stout heart.  Her
lack of knowledge as to police procedure made her fearful that her
disguise would be discovered, and having to deal with the "gang" so
skilled in evil ways, so full of craft and guile, gave her a sudden
weak, helpless feeling.

Of the old man in front of her, she had no fear.  Had she not
scrubbed him, shaved him, fed him, scolded him.

She determined on a bold stroke!

"Well, goodnight, Sim," said Bill to the livery man, "good-night, and
be good!"

He started off down the street toward the welcome light of the Peace
Hotel, about a hundred yards away, but the street on which they were
travelling was in inky blackness, for everybody had long since gone
to bed.  The nurse followed close behind.

Stepping up behind him, she laid a detaining hand on his arm, and in
her deepest voice said quietly:

"William Adams, you are under arrest!" and before his astonished lips
could utter a word, she had slipped the handcuffs on him.

"But I haven't done anything," he cried, trembling, "search me, and
you won't find anything."

She backed him over against the wall of a building, and with her
flashlight, went through his pockets, until she came to the great
roll of bills.

"What are you doing with so much money?" she asked sternly.

"Just came in to get things for Christmas," began Bill, glibly,
"we're having a big Christmas treat out at our hall, and some of us
just made a little collection to buy a treat for the
kiddies--Christmas time, you know, and all that, when friend meets
friend."

His teeth were clattering with fright.

"Now see here," said the sergeant grimly, "you're lying, of course,
and I know you're lying.  The whole gang are known to me, and I know
where the cache is, and all about it.  The cache is in Bill Fraser's
old barn; I did not break my leg, as you see, that was all part of
the game, to throw you off your guard.  I got on my horse, and
followed you."

"My God!" cried the old man, "I'm no match for you.  I could have
sworn that leg hung limp.  Oh!  I'm too old, I guess to play the game
with young fellows like you.  I thought I was pretty cute, but I'm
not!"

"That's all right, Mr. Adams," said the sergeant, generously, "you're
cute enough, but you see you are caught fairly, and I could send you
to jail, but I have my own reasons for not wanting to do that."

The old man's breath was coming hard.

"Now, we'll make a bargain; I'll keep the money to-night, but
to-morrow we will make your lies come true.  I will send a friend of
mine, a nurse, to go around with you to help you with your shopping.
She won't know but what you are the benevolent old man who wants to
give the kids a good time.  I won't appear at all, it would arouse
suspicion if the people saw me with you, for every one knows I came
here especially to get you.  Well, I've got you all right, but no one
need know it but just you and me.  I know, maybe better than you, the
people you are to buy for, and I'll give you a list, and the nurse
will help you through.  How much money have you here?"

"There are twenty of the boys in on this," he said falteringly, "and
they each gave me twenty-five dollars."

"All right," said the sergeant, taking off the handcuffs, "that's
very good, now you go on to the hotel.  Have you some money besides
this?  All right then, the nurse will join you at nine, and you can
get at your shopping right away.  I'll not appear at all.  Now,
goodnight!"

"Goodnight," said the old man, faintly, and started down the street.

The sergeant watched him until he saw him open the porch door of the
hotel.  The lightness had gone from his step, and for the first time
the square light, which announced the name of the hotel to the world,
had in it for him, no mellowing welcome!


When Nurse Crawford opened her door, a few minutes later, she was
astonished to see a young man in the uniform of the Alberta
Provincial Police, on her door step, and to hear him say in
suppressed excitement:

"Kate, let me in!  Don't say a word.  Are you alone?  All right then,
pull down the blinds and listen to me.  Did anyone say we would have
a dull time when we came north?"

The astonished Miss Crawford, in her dressing gown, saw a young man
enter, who hastily removed his cap, letting fall a shower of golden
hair, and then with a whoop of delight, caught her around the waist
and kissed her, with a resounding smack.

"Didn't you always want a policeman for a beau, Kate?"

"Why, Bess Downey, what have you been up to--you quiet little
golden-haired beauty?"

"Show me your private office, before I say a word, or failing that,
let me get in behind the curtains of the bed, before I unfold my tale
of pure joy.  Kate, I flashed my flashlight into a man's face
to-night, and took his roll from him--and here it is," and she laid
the fat roll of five dollar bills on the bed.

Her friend arose and locked the door.  Then coming back, she said
gently, but with the professional air that sent Miss Downey into
peals of laughter, "Go on, Bessie, don't hurry, and don't get
excited.  Begin at the beginning."

When the story was told, the two girls sat along beside the fire,
deciding what would be bought with the money, writing down each item
as they thought of it.

First on the list was a phonograph for the hall.  Then came candy and
nuts and ready-filled stockings and dolls for the little girls, with
doll carriages and cradles, books and drums and sets of tools.  There
were twenty-four girls and twenty-eight boys to be provided for, and
fifteen women.

"You are to do the buying, Kate, and do get them something gay and
fancy," said Miss Downey; "perfume, boxes of candy, vanity cases,
silk stockings, fancy collars, beads,--go strong on beads and fancy
combs,--I'd put on one of your uniforms and go with you, only the old
man would know me--he's one of my patients, you know, but remember
this, don't get anything that is only useful.  We want things that
will glitter and sparkle, and look well on a tree, and oh, Kate, get
lots of sparklers and crackers, and red and green candles, and big
bells of red paper, and sleigh bells, and a big Santa Claus, and
reindeers, and anything you can lay your hands on that is festive and
gay!--and now Kate, I believe I'm hungry--it seems like years since I
left home! and forty miles on horseback is some step."

* * *

The next morning, the storekeeper at the Crossing got the sensation
of the season.  The well-known Bill Adams, accompanied by the
district nurse, Miss Crawford, made the rounds, and bought with a
lavish hand their fancy goods and toys.  Miss Crawford was particular
to tell each proprietor of the generous part Mr. Adams had taken in
making a collection among his friends to give the women and children
a real old-fashioned treat.

Under the spell of her enthusiasm, old Bill swallowed hard, and his
eyes were suspiciously moist as he modestly disclaimed the entire
credit.

"We all got thinking about it," he said, "and remembering the days
that are gone, when sleigh bells were ringing and glad hearts
singing.  Christmas seems to be a time to kind of spread the joys
around and shed the oil of gladness on each head."

"Pretty decent old scout, that old Bill Adams, after all," said the
proprietor of one of the drug stores, after Bill had paid for every
box of candy in the place, and the complete stock of perfume and
balloons.  "I always thought he was a tough old bird, but that just
shows you never can tell."

The big packing boxes were loaded at last, and Bill started back with
his precious load.  What his thoughts were, on the homeward journey,
will never be known.

The snow, which had held off so long, now began to fall, in gently
gliding flakes, which came without haste through the quiet air, and
as he drove through the spruce trees and pines, with his load of
Christmas things, a queer feeling of detachment from the past came
over him.  When he arrived at the hall, he found the nurse waiting
for him, and although he must have thought it strange, he said
nothing, naturally.

Unloading the many boxes and parcels, he stayed to help her decorate
the tree with the candles, sparklers and balloons, and was apparently
much gratified by her many words of approval.

"How did you know so well what to get?" she asked him.

"They helped me a good deal in the stores," he lied genially, "and
then of course I thought about it a good deal myself."

The nurse often stopped to look at him, in undisguised admiration, or
at least, he took it for that!

"Come back as early as you can to-morrow," she said, when it began to
get dark, "I feel that you must help me to put the things on, and
decide what we shall give to each person,--this is going to be the
most wonderful Christmas I have ever known!  It has all, or nearly
all, been your doing, and I cannot tell you just how I feel about it
all!"

"That's just how I feel too, Miss," he said, truthfully, "I can't
talk much about it, it is all here!" and he tapped his heart
dramatically.

* * *

By two o'clock on Christmas day, people began to arrive with their
provisions, and soon the long tables were set up and filled with
roast turkeys, chickens, salads, and jellies, cakes and pies.  No one
was gayer or happier than Mrs. Lukes, who had come over early, with
Madge, to sweep out, and see if the lamps were ready.

"It's just like a dream," she cried happily to one of her neighbors.
"It's just what I have been dreaming of, and I'm so happy I just feel
I could fly!  Just to know our children will have one real Christmas
tree, makes up for all we've come through."

The tree, which the nurse and Bill Adams had finished dressing, stood
on a big box, draped with the red shawl, on the stage, but it was not
allowed to be seen until after supper, although there were many
adventurous young souls who crept forward to get a peek, and came
back shivering with delight.

At five o'clock, dinner began.  The men and women, and small children
"sat in," while the big girls and boys waited on them, carrying
plates of turkey and mashed potatoes and golden turnips from the
reserves on the stove.

Mrs. Lukes presided at the base of operations, and made the coffee
and cut the pies, and was everywhere at once.

At the proper moment, a hush fell on the audience, for the lamps were
all turned low, and when the curtain was rolled back and the
Christmas tree, ablaze with candles and sparklers, burst on the
enraptured assemblage, there were little peals of delight and
surprise from all over the hall.

Dolls with golden hair, dolls with brown hair, stretched their arms
appealingly to their little mothers in the audience, while from every
branch, a silver sparkler shot its white stars upward in a perfect
frenzy of gladness.  Balloons in red, green and white, tugged at
their tie-strings and threatened to fly to the roof, and the presence
of balls and drums, and engines and wagons, and mysterious bundles
and boxes below the tree, set the young hearts dancing with
expectation.

When the supper was over, and the last waiter had been fed, the nurse
insisted that Bill Adams should speak to the people.  "They are all
asking who bought all these things, and you must tell them.  It's
only fair to all the men who contributed," her eyes were dancing with
mischief, "Sure, you must speak, Mr. Adams, tell them about Christmas
being the time when spirits blend and friend holds fellowship with
friend, and all that.  That's good stuff, and about the pores of the
heart being open, and 'Blest be the tie that binds.'"

Old Bill's eyes swept her face in keenest scrutiny, "Where did you
hear that?"

"O, that's the words of a hymn, you know it, I'm sure."

There was no time for thought, for already the nurse was speaking,
and a hush had fallen upon the happy company.

"You will be wondering, dear friends, who our Santa Claus is
to-night, who has made all this happiness possible.  We have him here
behind the curtain, and now I am going to introduce to you one of our
oldest and best known settlers, Mr. William Adams."

Too much surprised even to applaud, the people sat, and old Bill came
forward.  Under Miss Crawford's persuasion, he had bought a new suit,
and had indulged in a shave and haircut, and the gasp of astonishment
which broke from the people was a sincere tribute to his improved
appearance.

"Dear friends," he said, "it's a long time since I've made a speech.
Many years have fallen on my speech-making ability--years and--other
things.  But to-night is Christmas, and the spirits of Christmas are
abroad and make us do queer things, things we did not intend to
do--queer things but things which make us happy, too--I don't half
understand all this myself, and I don't know why I am here.  But,"
here he straightened up and began to expand like a dried Japanese
water flower that feels the life-giving water beneath it, "it's only
fair to the boys who chipped in on this to tell you that a bunch of
us got talkin' about Christmas, a while back, and it being a time for
a little jollification, and this year," he stumbled a little here,
but the glowing faces before him gave him courage, "this year it
seemed best to spread it out, and make the fun reach over all the
people--it seemed best!  In fact we were led--that way--by an
invisible hand--as it were--and we sure all hope you are enjoyin' it
and that everybody is as pleased as I am.  I never knew that a person
could feel as good as this--without takin' anything.  It's a new one
on me--but I hope you are all happy--I sure am."

Cheers and wildest applause broke out then, and cries of, "You bet we
are," "Good old boy, Bill," "you're all right," and when it had
subsided, another thrill came for from behind the tree and hidden by
it, the big square phonograph, with its doors opened wide, burst into
song:

  "Hark the herald angels sing
  Glory to the new-born King;
  Peace on earth and mercy mild
  God and sinners reconciled.

--it sang, in the silvery tones of the Welsh quartette, sang it in
words so clear and triumphant, that on its strong wings of melody,
tired souls were borne upward to the very gates of heaven!

"It's the singers from Wintering Hills," someone gasped, "it must be."

But Mrs. Lukes pressed her rough hands together, convulsively.
"Now," she cried, happily, "it's Christmas; it's a real Christmas,
with God in it.  It has crossed the Peace!--it has come over to us!
My dream has come true, I'm satisfied," and from her eyes the staring
loneliness had all gone, and in their depths had dawned a great new
hope of better things to come.

While the tree was being unloaded, and the fun was at its height, the
nurse slipped away, with a great basket of provisions for her patient.

"I'm neglecting you," she said, "but oh, the things I have to tell
you when it is over--I can't let you go to the hospital at the
Crossing to-morrow, I won't be through telling you.  I'm going to
bring old Bill home with me--I'll leave the teapot here where you can
reach it.  Now, chew your food well--isn't that a great brand of
lemon pie?  Keep your mind from worry, and if you feel the need of
further instructions, consult Diana here beside you."

She was gone in a moment, and in spite of the two lamps--turned
high--for him the room had grown dark.

* * *

"Come right in, Mr. Adams," he heard her saying at the door, "come
right in--you've never seen my nice little house, have you?  Oh no,
I'm never lonely.  You see sometimes I have a patient for a few
days,--my private ward is over there behind the curtain; yes, indeed,
I like your idea for weekly meetings in the hall.  Now with the
phonograph, and so many ready to help, we can have all sorts of good
times.  Hang your coat here, Mr. Adams.  I would like you to meet my
patient.  He cannot get out of bed, so will you please come this way."

Throwing back the curtain in front of the "dispensary," the light
fell full on the laughing face of Sergeant Woods.

"Mr. Adams, meet Sergeant Woods," said the nurse calmly.

"Haven't we met before," said the old man, trying to recover his
composure.

"Yes," said the sergeant, smiling, "you very kindly picked me up on
Brick's hill, and your friend Dad Peters, brought me here, two days
ago."

"But you didn't stay here," exclaimed his visitor.

"Ever since, haven't I nurse?"

"For the very good reason," said the nurse, "that his leg is in
splints."

The old man looked from one to the other helplessly, and sat down
hard in the chair the nurse had placed for him.

"Then who the devil did I see, and who was it that----"

"That what, Mr. Adams?" asked the nurse, with more eagerness than
regard for sentence construction.

"See here," burst from the old man, "did you break your leg or did
you not?"

"I did."

"Well, why did you tell me you didn't, and that it was all in the
game to throw me off the track, and why did you wave it round to show
me it was all right?"

The sergeant looked at the nurse with lifted eyebrows.

"O, nurse!" he said.

"I didn't wave it," said the nurse, quietly, "I did not need to wave
it; you could tell it couldn't be broken,--no one could ride forty
miles with a broken leg, could they?"

"See here," said the old man desperately, "who held me up at the
point of a revolver, in a dark corner at the Crossin', and took five
hundred dollars from me."

"I didn't," spoke up the policeman, "I have been here all the time,
with a broken leg."

Looking from one to the other, the old man slowly began to nod his
head.  Then he arose, and making a sweeping bow to the nurse, he said:

"Miss Downey, once again I offer you my hand in marriage."

With equal dignity, Miss Downey replied, "And once again I decline
the honor!"

There was a silence in the room, broken only by the thumping of
Tinker-Bell's tail on the floor, as she registered applause.

"Young man," said Mr. Adams, addressing the radiant face on the
pillow, "young man, there's one awful lesson in this for you and me!
We're poor fish, us men!  We have a rough way of doing things.  Your
way was to arrest me, seize the stuff--send me to jail--That's no
damn good!  I'd be swearing my soul away in jail--boys all
mad--everything in a mess.  Look at this girl--she skins my roll, but
look what she does with it--what she does with me, she scrubbed me,
shaved me, first, in my own house, then on the public highway, robbed
me, but made me the best liked man in the neighborhood, makes
everyone think so well of me--I think well of myself.  I'm not old
Bill Adams the bootlegger; I'm the man who brought the Christmas
treat to the kids.  She spoils my taste for booze, this girl, and has
given me a taste--for my fellowmen.  To-night coming out, I met a
bunch of the boys who gave me the money, Dad Peters, Bill Lukes and
the rest.  They grabbed my hand and said, 'All right, old man, glad
you done it?'  They feel better, I feel better, every one in the
settlement feels better, she did it all, she and your revolver."

"Mr. Adams," said the nurse, taking the old man's hand in both of
hers, "you're wrong about the revolver.  It was only a flashlight I
used, and remember, the suggestion was yours, about buying things for
the kids.  You said it first--that gave me the idea.  I saw it was
the way out, and it has all been so fine!  You played up well, too,
Mr. Adams and we'll never give it away."

He turned to the bed and shook hands with the Sergeant.

"You remember what I said, sergeant, about a man alone being a poor
stick!  Profit by it!  Not but that I'm willing to admit that as men
go--you're some man!"

When Bill Adams was gone, she came back to her patient, and in her
best hospital manner, beat up his pillows.

"I'm getting better, nurse!" he said, hopefully.  "I'm feeling better
every minute."

"Well," she said.

"About to-morrow, I will feel well enough to----"

She interrupted him quickly.

"It may interest you to know that nurses never accept proposals from
their patients."

He knitted his brows and looked at her.

"When will you take me to the hospital?" he asked, after a pause.

"To-morrow--I would keep you here, but I may be called away any
minute."

"And I won't be your patient then?"

"No."

"But you will come to see me?"

"Yes."

"But, nurse, no one can propose to a girl when he doesn't know her
first name!"

"That doesn't matter," she said, "north of the Peace!"

And outside, right above the little house, the northern lights pink
and green and violet and amber, marched and flamed, and danced and
looped, folding and shooting and darting--just as if they knew--and
were glad!



  DESIGNED AND PRINTED
  FOR
  THOMAS ALLEN
  BY
  NOBLE SCOTT LIMITED
  TORONTO


[The end of _When Christmas Crossed "The Peace"_ by Nellie L. McClung]