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“It is a letter to you from our father.”

“And you kept it from me?” cried the other.

“Read it,” said William Carstairs.

With trembling hands “Crackerjack” tore it open. It was a message of
love and forgiveness penned by a dying hand.

“If I had had this then I might have been a different man,” said the
poor wretch.

“There is another paper under it, or there should be, in the same
drawer,” went on William Carstairs, imperturbably. “Perhaps you would
better read that.”

John Carstairs needed no second invitation. He turned to the open
drawer and took out the next paper. It was a copy of a will. The farm
and business had been left to William, but one half of it was to be held
in trust for his brother. The man read it and then he crushed the paper
in his hand.

“And that, too, might have saved me. My God!” he cried, “I’ve been a
drunken blackguard. I’ve gone down to the very depths. I have been in
State’s prison. I was, I am, a thief, but I never would have withheld a
dying man’s forgiveness from his son. I never would have kept a poor
wretch who was crazy with shame and who drank himself into crime out of
his share of the property.”

Animated by a certain fell purpose, he leaped across the room and seized
the pistol.

“Yes, and I have you now!” he cried. “I’ll make you pay.”

He levelled the weapon at his brother with a steady hand.

“What are you doin’ to do wif that pistol?” said young John William,
curiously looking up from his stocking, while Helen cried out. The
little woman acted the better part. With rare intuition she came quickly
and took the left hand of the man and patted it gently. For one thing,
her father was not afraid, and that reassured her. John Carstairs threw
the pistol down again. William Carstairs had never moved.

“Now,” he said, “let me explain.”

“Can you explain away this?”

“I can. Father’s will was not opened until the day after you left. As
God is my judge I did not know he had written to you. I did not know he
had left anything to you. I left no stone unturned in an endeavour to
find you. I employed the best detectives in the land, but we found no
trace of you whatever. Why, John, I have only been sorry once that I
let you go that night, that I spoke those words to you, and that has
been all the time.”

“And where does this come from?” said the man, flinging his arm up and
confronting the magnificent room.

“It came from the old farm. There was oil on it and I sold it for a
great price. I was happily married. I came here and have been successful
in business. Half of it all is yours.”

“I won’t take it.”

“John,” said William Carstairs, “I offered you money once and you struck
it out of my hand. You remember?”

“Yes.”

“What I am offering you now is your own. You can’t strike it out of my
hand. It is not mine, but yours.”

“I won’t have it,” protested the man. “It’s too late. You don’t know
what I’ve been, a common thief. ‘Crackerjack’ is my name. Every
policeman and detective in New York knows me.”

“But you’ve got a little Helen, too, haven’t you?” interposed the little
girl with wisdom and tact beyond her years.

“Yes.”

“And you said she was very poor and had no Christmas.”

“Yes.”

“For her sake, John,” said William Carstairs. “Indeed you must not think
you have been punished alone. I have been punished, too. I’ll help you
begin again. Here”–he stepped closer to his brother–“is my hand.”

The other stared at it uncomprehendingly.

“There is nothing in it now but affection. Won’t you take it?”

Slowly John Carstairs lifted his hand. His palm met that of his elder
brother. He was so hungry and so weak and so overcome that he swayed a
little. His head bowed, his body shook and the elder brother put his arm
around him and drew him close.

Into the room came William Carstairs’ wife. She, too, had at last been
aroused by the conversation, and, missing her husband, she had thrown a
wrapper about her and had come down to seek him.

“We tame down to find Santy Claus,” burst out young John William, at the
sight of her, “and he’s been here, look muvver.”

Yes, Santa Claus had indeed been there. The boy spoke better than he
knew.

“And this,” said little Helen eagerly, pointing proudly to her new
acquaintance, “is a friend of his, and he knows papa and he’s got a
little Helen and we’re going to give her a Merry Christmas.”

William Carstairs had no secrets from his wife. With a flash of womanly
intuition, although she could not understand how he came to be there,
she divined who this strange guest was who looked a pale, weak picture
of her strong and splendid husband, and yet she must have final
assurance.

“Who is this gentleman, William?” she asked quietly, and John Carstairs
was forever grateful to her for her word that night.

“This,” said William Carstairs, “is my father’s son, my brother, who was
dead and is alive again, and was lost and is found.”

And so, as it began with the beginning, this story ends with the ending
of the best and most famous of all the stories that were ever told.