There came back with her one bearing gifts--a tall, dark old man, with a face of many deep lines and severe set, who yet somehow shed kindness, as if he held a spirit of light prisoned within his darkness, so that, while only now and then could a visible ray of it escape through the sombre eye or through a sudden winning quality in the harsh voice, it nevertheless radiated from him sensibly at all times, to belie his sternness and puzzle those who feared him.
Uneasy enough he looked now as Clytie unloaded him of the bundles and bulky toys.

In a silence broken only by their breathing they quickly bestowed the gifts--some in the hanging stockings at the fire-place, others beside each bed, in chairs or on the mantel.
Then they were in the hall again, the door closed so that they could speak.

The old man took up his own candle from a stand against the wall.
"The little one is like her," he said.
"He's awful cunning and bright, but Allan is the handsomest.

Never in my born days did I see so beautiful a boy." "But he's like the father, line for line." There was a sudden savage roughness in the voice, a sterner set to the shaven upper lip and straight mouth, though he still spoke low.

"Like the huckstering, godless fiddle-player that took her away from me.