He reflected, whimsically, that he and his little girl stood at cross-ways in life. Two roads stretched out before him. Along one, a rather bleak and dreary way for a small girl, he might lead her. Down the other she could go with happy children, as happy as they. Why should not both roads lead to the same destination? The mere question implied a great change in the professor's mental attitude. His daughter was to be an unusual woman. Well, why not? That did not necessarily mean that she must also be an unnatural child, missing joys that later years could never make up to her. He thought of her mother, and asked himself for the first time whether the dead Hildegarde would approve of what he was doing with the living one. An unaccustomed lump formed in his throat. For once in his life he was giving his whole mind, without bias, to the problems Hildegarde suggested. He saw that he had made mistakes, but he saw, too, that it was not too late to correct them.
Hildegarde beat on his chest with her small hands.
"Is Cwistmus really coming?" she urged. "An' will Santa Claus come down the chimney an' put tings in my 'tockings?"
"Yes," he said, benignly. "Christmas will be here next week. And—er—when it comes I think you may expect Santa Claus."
"With the deers—eight deers?"
"Oh yes; eight deer; possibly twelve," added the professor, in abandoned recklessness.
Hildegarde settled back in his arms with a long sigh of utter happiness. She did not realize that a battle had been fought and won, but she was conscious of something new and singularly congenial in the atmosphere.
"I was 'fwaid it might be mistakes, like fairies," she murmured, happily. "Now tell me dezackly how Santa Claus looks."
Mademoiselle Verrier, reentering the library at that moment, heard the question and the answer. The famous scientist, realizing his limitations, was shamelessly stealing from an immortal authority, while Hildegarde solemnly repeated the words after him:
"'He—was—dressed—all—in—fur—from—his—head—to—his—foot,
And—his—clothes—were—all—tarnished—with—ashes—and—soot;
A—bundle—of—toys—he—had—flung—on—his—back,
And—he—looked—like—a—peddler—just—opening—his—pack,'"
quoted the professor, slowly, but with gratifying conviction.
"Er—I'm afraid I've forgotten the rest, Hildegarde. It's a little matter of some thirty years since I looked up the scientific records of this matter."
Mademoiselle Verrier, her black eyes bulging, sank weakly into a chair by the door. It uttered a telltale squeak as it received her plump little figure, and Professor Seymour turned quickly at the sound. He flushed as he saw her. Then he spoke up manfully.
"After considerable reflection, mademoiselle," he said, "due in part to your words, but largely to an extended conversation with which my daughter has favored me, I have decided to change our system with her. We will try the usual child routine for six months. This being the Yuletide, we are beginning—er—with Santa Claus and Christmas. Also with the story of the Christ-child, which—er—I am willing you should read to her."
He watched the illumination of her expressive face, and his eyes twinkled.
"It is possible," he added, kindly, "that I may even get round in future to the 'so little spanking' you intelligently suggest."
Hildegarde smiled dreamily. The word was unpleasant, and associated in her mind with vital crises in the lives of her small friends. But it could have no personal association. Besides, at the worst there was Santa Claus!
"Tell me 'gain dezackly how he looks," she commanded, with unfaltering interest. And the greatest of America's scientific authorities meekly repeated his halting description.
