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“I did not know that I had spoken. As for the bet, I deserve to be thrashed for ever having made it; but, duffer as I am, I want you to know that I’m something worse than duffer. The first time I met you I made a bet that I should know your history before Christmas Day. I haven’t a word to say for myself. I’m contemptible. I beg your pardon; for your history is none of my business. I was really interested; that’s all; but your lives, I believe it, as if it was in the Bible, have been great–yes, that’s the word! and I’m a better chap for having known you, though, perhaps, I’ve known you all along, because, you see, I’ve–I’ve been friends with your daughter–and-well, really I haven’t anything else to say, except that I hope you’ll forgive me, and let me know you always.”

Malbrouck regarded him for a moment with a grave smile, and then looked toward his wife. Both turned their glances quickly upon Margaret, whose eyes were on the fire. The look upon her face was very gentle; something new and beautiful had come to reign there.

A moment, and Malbrouck spoke: “You did what was youthful and curious, but not wrong; and you shall not lose your hazard. I–“

“No, do not tell me,” Gregory interrupted; “only let me be pardoned.”

“As I said, lad, you shall not lose your hazard. I will tell you the brief tale of two lives.”

“But, I beg of you! For the instant I forgot. I have more to confess.” And Gregory told them in substance what Pretty Pierre had disclosed to him in the Rocky Mountains.

When he had finished, Malbrouck said: “My tale then is briefer still: I was a common soldier, English and humble by my mother, French and noble through my father–noble, but poor. In Burmah, at an outbreak among the natives, I rescued my colonel from immediate and horrible death, though he died in my arms from the injuries he received. His daughter too, it was my fortune, through God’s Providence, to save from great danger. She became my wife. You remember that song you sang the day we first met you?

“It brought her father back to mind painfully. When we came to England her people–her mother–would not receive me. For myself I did not care; for my wife, that was another matter. She loved me and preferred to go with me anywhere; to a new country, preferably. We came to Canada.

“We were forgotten in England. Time moves so fast, even if the records in red-books stand. Our daughter went to her grandmother to be brought up and educated in England–though it was a sore trial to us both–that she might fill nobly that place in life for which she is destined. With all she learned she did not forget us. We were happy save in her absence. We are happy now; not because she is mistress of Holwood and Marchurst–for her grandmother and another is dead–but because such as she is our daughter, and–“

He said no more. Margaret was beside him, and her fingers were on his lips.

Gregory came to his feet suddenly, and with a troubled face.

“Mistress of Holwood and Marchurst!” he said; and his mind ran over his own great deficiencies, and the list of eligible and anxious suitors that Park Lane could muster. He had never thought of her in the light of a great heiress.

But he looked down at her as she knelt at her father’s knee, her eyes upturned to his, and the tide of his fear retreated; for he saw in them the same look she had given him when she leaned her cheek against the moose’s neck that afternoon.

When the clock struck twelve upon a moment’s pleasant silence, John Malbrouck said to Gregory Thorne:

“Yes, you have won your Christmas hazard, my boy.”

But a softer voice than his whispered: “Are you–content–Gregory?”

The Spirits of Christmas-tide, whose paths lie north as well as south, smiled as they wrote his answer on their tablets; for they knew, as the man said, that he would always be content, and–which is more in the sight of angels–that the woman would be content also.