SANTA CLAUS'SPARTNER

BY

THOMAS NELSON PAGE

ILLUSTRATED BY W. GLACKENS

[Illustration]

NEW YORK

CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS

1899

_Copyright, 1899, by Charles Scribner's Sons_

TO MY FATHER

_who among all the men the writer knew in his youth was the mostfamiliar with books; and who of all the men the writer has ever knownhas exemplified best the virtue of open-handedness, this little Book isaffectionately inscribed by his son_, THE AUTHOR

ILLUSTRATIONS

FROM DRAWINGS IN COLOR BY W. GLACKENS

_Vignette. __"Guess who it is?" she cried. __Livingstone had to dodge for his life. __Half a dozen young bodies flung themselves upon him. __He took the shopkeeper aside and had a little talk with him. __The little form snuggled against him closer and closer. __And James with sparkling eyes rolled back the folding doors. __Standing in the Christmas evening light in a long avenue under swaying boughs. _

SANTA CLAUS'S PARTNER

CHAPTER I

Berryman Livingstone was a successful man, a very successful man, and ashe sat in his cushioned chair in his inner private office (in the bestoffice-building in the city) on a particularly snowy evening inDecember, he looked it every inch. It spoke in every line of hisclean-cut, self-contained face, with its straight, thin nose, closelydrawn mouth, strong chin and clear gray eyes; in every movement of hiserect, trim, well-groomed figure; in every detail of his faultlessattire; in every tone of his assured, assertive, incisive speech. Assome one said of him, he always looked as if he had just been ironed. 

He used to be spoken of as "a man of parts;" now he was spoken of as "aman of wealth--a capitalist. "

Not that he was as successful as he intended to be; but the way was allclear and shining before him now. It was now simply a matter of time. Hecould no more help going on to further heights of success than his"gilt-edged" securities, stored in thick parcels in his safe-depositboxes, could help bearing interest. 

He contemplated the situation this snowy evening with a deep serenitythat brought a transient gleam of light to his somewhat cold face. 

He knew he was successful by the silent envy with which hisacquaintances regarded him; by the respect with which he was treated andhis opinion was received at the different Boards, of which he was now aninfluential member, by men who fifteen years ago hardly knew of hisexistence. He knew it by the numbers of invitations to the mostfashionable houses which crowded his library table; by the familiar andjovial air with which presidents and magnates of big corporations, whocould on a moment's notice change from warmth--temperate warmth--to ice, greeted him; and by the cajoling speeches with which fashionable mammaswith unmarried daughters of a certain or uncertain age rallied him abouthis big, empty house on a fashionable street, and his handsome dinners, where only one thing was wanting--the thing they had in mind. 

Berryman Livingstone had, however, much better proof of success than themere plaudits of the world. Many men had these who had no realfoundation for their display. For instance, "Meteor" Broome the broker, had just taken the big house on the corner above him, and had filled hisstable with high-stepping, high-priced horses--much talked of in thepublic prints--and his wife wore jewels as handsome as Mrs. Parke-Rhode's who owned the house and twenty more like it. ColonelKeightly was one of the largest dealers on 'Change this year and wasadvertised in all the papers as having made a cool million and a half ina single venture out West. Van Diver was always spoken of as the "GrainKing, " "Mining King, " or some other kind of Royalty, because of hisinfallible success, and Midan touch. 

But though these and many more like them were said to have made in ayear or two more than Livingstone with all his pains had been able toaccumulate in a score of years of earnest toil and assiduous devotion tobusiness; were now invited to the same big houses that Livingstonevisited, and were greeted by almost as flattering speeches as Livingstonereceived, Livingstone knew of discussions as to these men at Boardsother than the "festal board, " and of "stiffer" notes that had been sentthem than those stiff and sealed missives which were left at their frontdoors by liveried footmen. 

Livingstone, however, though he "kept out of the papers, " having arooted and growing prejudice against this form of vulgarity, could atany time, on five minutes' notice, establish the solidity of hisfoundation by simply unlocking his safe-deposit boxes. His foundationwas as solid as gold. 

On the mahogany table-desk before him lay now a couple of books: one along, ledger-like folio in the russet covering sacred to the binding ofthat particular kind of work which a summer-hearted Writer of booksyears ago inscribed as "a book of great interest;" the other, a smallervolume, a memorandum book, more richly attired than its sober companion, in Russia leather. 

For an hour or two Mr. Livingstone, with closely-drawn, thin lips, andeager eyes, had sat in his seat, silent, immersed, absorbed, andcompared the two volumes, from time to time making memoranda in thesmaller book, whilst his clerks had sat on their high stools in thelarge office outside looking impatiently at the white-faced clock on thewall as it slowly marked the passing time, or gazing enviously andgrumblingly out of the windows at the dark, hurrying crowds below makingtheir way homeward through the falling snow. 

The young men could not have stood it but for the imperturbable patienceand sweet temper of the oldest man in the office, a quiet-faced, middle-aged man, who, in a low, cheery, pleasant voice, restrained theirimpatience and soothed their ruffled spirits. 

Even this, however, was only partially successful. 

"Go in there, Mr. Clark, and tell him we want to go home, " urgedfretfully one youth, a tentative dandy, with a sharp nose and bluntchin, who had been diligently arranging his vivid necktie for more thana half-hour at a little mirror on the wall. 

"Oh! He'll be out directly now, " replied the older man, looking up fromthe account-book before him. 

"You've been saying that for three hours!" complained the other. 

"Well, see if it doesn't come true this time, " said the older clerk, kindly. "He'll make it up to you. "

This view of the case did not seem to appeal very strongly to the youngman; he simply grunted. 

"_I_'m going to give him notice. I'll not be put upon this way--"bristled a yet younger clerk, stepping down from his high stool in acorner and squaring his shoulders with martial manifestations. 

This unexpected interposition appeared to be the outlet the oldergrumbler wanted. 

"Yes, you will!" he sneered with disdain, turning his eyes on his juniorderisively. He could at least bully Sipkins. 

For response, the youngster walked with a firm tread straight up to thedoor of the private office; put out his hand so quickly that the other'seyes opened wide; then turned so suddenly as to catch his derider's lookof wonder; stuck out his tongue in triumph at the success of his ruse, and walked on to the window. 

"He'll be through directly, see if he is not, " reiterated the seniorclerk with kindly intonation. "Don't make a noise, there's a goodfellow;" and once more John Clark, the dean of the office, guilefullyburied himself in his columns. 

"He must be writing his love-letters. Go in there, Hartley, and help himout. You're an adept at that, " hazarded the youngster at the window tothe dapper youth at the mirror. 

There was a subdued explosion from all the others but Clark, afterwhich, as if relieved by this escape of steam, the young men quieteddown, and once more applied themselves to looking moodily out of thewindows, whilst the older clerk gave a secret peep at his watch, andthen, after another glance at the closed door of the private office, went back once more to his work. 

Meantime, within his closed sanctum Livingstone still sat with intentgaze, poring over the page of figures before him. The expression on hisface was one of profound satisfaction. He had at last reached the acmeof his ambition--that is, of his later ambition. (He had once had otheraims. ) He had arrived at the point towards which he had been strainingfor the last eight--ten--fifteen years--he did not try to remember justhow long--it had been a good while. He had at length accumulated, "onthe most conservative estimate" (he framed the phrase in his mind, following the habit of his Boards)--he had no need to look now at thepage before him: the seven figures that formed the balance, as hethought of them, suddenly appeared before him in facsimile. He had beengazing at them so steadily that now even when he shut his eyes he couldsee them clearly. It gave him a little glow about his heart;--it wasquite convenient: he could always see them. 

It was a great sum. He had attained his ambition. 

Last year when he balanced his books at the close of the year, he hadbeen worth only--a sum expressed in six figures, even when he put hissecurities at their full value. Now it could only be written in sevenfigures, "on the most conservative estimate. "

Yes, he had reached the top. He could walk up the street now and lookany man in the face, or turn his back on him, just as he chose. Thethought pleased him. 

Years ago, a friend--an old friend of his youth, Harry Trelane, hadasked him to come down to the country to visit him and meet his childrenand see the peach trees bloom. He had pleaded business, and his friendhad asked him gravely why he kept on working so hard when he was alreadyso well off. He wanted to be rich, he had replied. 

"But you are already rich--you must be worth half a million? and you area single man, with no children to leave it to. "

"Yes, but I mean to be worth double that. "

"Why?"

"Oh!--so that I can tell any man I choose to go to the d---l, " he hadsaid half jestingly, being rather put to it by his friend's earnestness. His friend had laughed too, he remembered, but not heartily. 

"Well, that is not much of a satisfaction after all, " he had said; "thereal satisfaction is in helping him the other way;"--and thisLivingstone remembered he had said very earnestly. 

Livingstone now had reached this point of his aspiration--he could tellany man he chose "to go to the devil. "

His content over this reflection was shadowed only by a momentaryrecollection that Henry Trelane was since dead. He regretted that hisfriend could not know of his success. 

Another friend suddenly floated into his memory. Catherine Trelane washis college-mate's sister. Once she had been all the world toLivingstone, and he had found out afterwards that she had cared for himtoo, and would have married him had he spoken at one time. But he hadnot known this at first, and when he began to grow he could not bringhimself to it. He could not afford to burden himself with a family thatmight interfere with his success. Then later, when he had succeeded andwas well off and had asked Catherine Trelane to be his wife, she haddeclined. She said Livingstone had not offered her himself, but hisfortune. It had stung Livingstone deeply, and he had awakened, but toolate, to find for a while that he had really loved her. She was well offtoo, having been left a comfortable sum by a relative. 

However, Livingstone was glad now, as he reflected on it, that it hadturned out so. Catherine Trelane's refusal had really been the incentivewhich had spurred him on to greater success. It was to revenge himselfthat he had plunged deeper into business than ever, and he had boughthis fine house to show that he could afford to live in style. He hadintended then to marry; but he had not had time to do so; he had alwaysbeen too busy. 

Catherine Trelane, at least, was not dead. He had not heard of her in along time; she had married, he knew, a man named--Shepherd, he believed, and he had heard that her husband was dead. 

He would see that she knew he was worth--the page of figures suddenlyflashed in before his eyes like a magic-lantern slide. Yes, he was worthall that! and he could now marry whom and when he pleased. 

CHAPTER II

Livingstone closed his books. He had put everything in such shape thatClark, his confidential clerk, would not have the least trouble thisyear in transferring everything and starting the new books that wouldnow be necessary. 

Last year Clark had been at his house a good many nights writing upthese private books; but that was because Clark had been in a sort ofmuddle last winter, --his wife was sick, or one of his dozen children hadmet with an accident, --or something, --Livingstone vaguely remembered. 

This year there would be no such trouble. Livingstone was pleased at thethought; for Clark was a good fellow, and a capable bookkeeper, eventhough he was a trifle slow. 

Livingstone felt that he had, in a way, a high regard for Clark. He wasattentive to his duties, beyond words. He was a gentleman, too, --of afirst-rate family--a man of principle. How he could ever have beencontent to remain a simple clerk all these years, Livingstone could notunderstand. It gave him a certain contempt for him. That came, hereflected, of a man's marrying indiscreetly and having a houseful ofchildren on his back. 

Clark would be pleased at the showing on the books. He was alwaysdelighted when the balances showed a marked increase. 

Livingstone was glad now that he had not only paid the old clerk extrafor his night-work last year, but had given him fifty dollarsadditional, partly because of the trouble in his family, and partlybecause Livingstone had been unusually irritated when Clark got the twoaccounts confused. 

Livingstone prided himself on his manner to his employees. He pridedhimself on being a gentleman, and it was a mark of a gentleman alwaysto treat subordinates with civility. He knew men in the city who wereabsolute bears to their employees; but they were blackguards. 

He, perhaps, ought to have discharged Clark without a word; that wouldhave been "business;" but really he ought not to have spoken to him ashe did. Clark undoubtedly acted with dignity. Livingstone had had toapologize to him and ask him to remain, and had made the amend (tohimself) by giving him fifty dollars extra for the ten nights' work. Hecould only justify the act now by reflecting that Clark had more thanonce suggested investments which had turned out most fortunately. 

Livingstone determined to give Clark this year a hundred dollars--no, fifty--he must not spoil him, and it really was not "business. "

The thought of his liberality brought to Livingstone's mind thedonations that he always made at the close of the year. He might as wellsend off the cheques now. 

He took from a locked drawer his private cheque-book and turned thestubs thoughtfully. He had had that cheque-book for a good many years. He used to give away a tenth of his income. His father before him usedto do that. He remembered, with a smile, how large the sums used to seemto him. He turned back the stubs only to see how small a tenth used tobe. He no longer gave a tenth or a twentieth or even a--he had nodifficulty in deciding the exact percentage he gave; for whenever hethought now of the sum he was worth, the figures themselves, inclean-cut lines, popped before his eyes. It was very curious. He couldactually see them in his own handwriting. He rubbed his eyes, and thefigures disappeared. 

Well, he gave a good deal, anyhow--a good deal more than most men, hereflected. He looked at the later stubs and was gratified to find howlarge the amounts were, --they showed how rich he was, --and what adiversified list of charities he contributed to: hospitals, seminaries, asylums, churches, soup-kitchens, training schools of one kind oranother. The stubs all bore the names of those through whom hecontributed--they were mostly fashionable women of his acquaintance, whoeither for diversion or from real charity were interested in theseinstitutions. 

Mrs. Wright's name appeared oftenest. Mrs. Wright was a woman of fortuneand very prominent, he reflected, but she was really kind; she was justa crank, and, somehow, she appeared really to believe in him. Herhusband, Livingstone did not like: a cold, selfish man, who cared fornothing but money-making and his own family. 

There was one name down on the book for a small amount whichLivingstone could not recall. --Oh yes, he was an assistant preacher atLivingstone's church: the donation was for a Christmas-tree in aChildren's Hospital, or something of the kind. This was one of Mrs. Wright's charities too. Livingstone remembered the note the preacher hadwritten him afterwards--it had rather jarred on him, it was so grateful. He hated "gush, " he said to himself; he did not want to be bothered withdetails of yarn-gloves, flannel petticoats, and toys. He took out hispencil and wrote Mrs. Wright's name on the stub. That also should becharged to Mrs. Wright. He carried in his mind the total amount of thecontributions, and as he came to the end a half-frown rested on his browas he thought of having to give to all these objects again. 

That was the trouble with charities, --they were as regular as coupons. Confound Mrs. Wright! Why did she not let him alone! However, she wasan important woman--the leader in the best set in the city. Livingstonesat forward and began to fill out his cheques. Certain cheques he alwaysfilled out himself. He could not bear to let even Clark know what hegave to certain objects. 

The thought of how commendable this was crossed his face and lit it uplike a glint of transient sunshine. It vanished suddenly as he began tocalculate, leaving the place where it had rested colder than before. Hereally could not spend as much this year as last--why, there was--forpictures, so much; charities, so much, etc. It would quite cut into theamount he had already decided to lay by. He must draw in somewhere: hewas worth only--the line of figures slipped in before his eyes with itslantern-slide coldness. 

He reflected. He must cut down on his charities. He could not reduce thesum for the General Hospital Fund; he had been giving to that a numberof years. --Nor that for the asylum; Mrs. Wright was the president ofthat board, and had told him she counted on him. --Hang Mrs. Wright! Itwas positive blackmail!--Nor the pew-rent; that was respectable--nor theAssociated Charities; every one gave to that. He must cut out thesmaller charities. 

So he left off the Children's Hospital Christmas-tree Fund, and thesoup-kitchen, and a few insignificant things like them into which he hadbeen worried by Mrs. Wright and other troublesome women. The only regrethe had was that taken together these sums did not amount to a greatdeal. To bring the saving up he came near cutting out the hospital. However, he decided not to do so. Mrs. Wright believed in him. He wouldleave out one of the pictures he had intended to buy; he would denyhimself, and not cut out the big charity. This would save him thetrouble of refusing Mrs. Wright and would also save him a good deal moremoney. 

Once more, at the thought of his self-denial, that ray of wintrysunshine passed across Livingstone's cold face and gave it a look ofdistinction--almost like that of a marble statue. 

Again he relapsed into reflection. His eyes were resting on the paneoutside of which the fine snow was filling the chilly afternoon air influrries and scurries that rose and fell and seemed to be blowing everyway at once. But Livingstone's eyes were not on the snow. It had been solong since Livingstone had given a thought to the weather, except as itmight affect the net earnings of railways in which he was interested, that he never knew what the weather was, and so far as he was concernedthere need not have been any weather. Spring was to him but the seasonwhen certain work could be done which in time would yield a crop ofdividends; and Autumn was but the time when crops would be moved andstocks sent up or down. 

So, though Livingstone's eyes rested on the pane, outside of which theflurrying snow was driving that meant so much to so many people, and hisface was thoughtful--very thoughtful--he was not thinking of the snow, he was calculating profits. 

CHAPTER III

A noise in the outer office recalled Livingstone from his reverie. Hearoused himself, almost with a start, and glanced at the gilt clock justabove the stock-indicator. He had been so absorbed that he had quiteforgotten that he had told the clerks to wait for him. He had had noidea that he had been at work so long. He reflected, however, that hehad been writing charity-cheques: the clerks ought to appreciate thefact. 

He touched a button, and the next second there was a gentle tap on thedoor, and Clark appeared. He was just the person to give just such atap: a refined-looking, middle-aged, middle-sized man, with a facerather pale and a little worn; a high, calm forehead, above which thegrizzled hair was almost gone; mild, blue eyes which beamed throughblack-rimmed glasses; a pleasant mouth which a drooping, colorlessmoustache only partly concealed, and a well-formed but slightlyretreating chin. His figure was inclined to be stout, and his shoulderswere slightly bent. He walked softly, and as he spoke his voice wasgentle and pleasing. There was no assertion in it, but it was perfectlyself-respecting. The eyes and voice redeemed the face from beingcommonplace. 

"Oh!--Mr. Clark, I did not know I should have been so long about mywork. I was so engaged getting my book straight for you, and writing--afew cheques for my annual contributions to hospitals, etc. , --that thetime slipped by--"

The tone was unusually conciliatory for Livingstone; but he stillretained it in addressing Clark. It was partly a remnant of his old timerelation to Mr. Clark when he, yet a young man, first knew him, andpartly a recognition of Clark's position as a man of good birth who hadbeen unfortunate, and had a large family to support. 

"Oh! that's all right, Mr. Livingstone, " said the clerk, pleasantly. 

He gathered up the letters on the desk and was unconsciously pressingthem into exact order. 

"Shall I have these mailed or sent by a messenger?"

"Mail them, of course, " said Livingstone. "And Clark, I want you to--"

"I thought possibly that, as to-morrow is--" began the clerk inexplanation, but stopped as Livingstone continued speaking withoutnoticing the interruption. 

--"I have been going over my matters, " pursued Livingstone, "and theyare in excellent shape--better this year than ever before--"

The clerk's face brightened. 

"That's very good, " said he, heartily. "I knew they were. "

--"Yes, very good, indeed, " said Livingstone condescendingly, pausing todwell for a second on the sight of the line of pallid figures whichsuddenly flashed before his eyes. "And I have got everything straightfor you this year; and I want you to come up to my house this eveningand go over the books with me quietly, so that I can show you--"

"This evening?" The clerk's countenance fell and the words were as nearan exclamation as he ever indulged in. 

"Yes--, this evening. I shall be at home this evening and to-morrowevening--Why not this evening?" demanded Livingstone almost sharply. 

"Why, only--that it's--. However, --" The speaker broke off. "I'll bethere, sir. About eight-thirty, I suppose?"

"Yes, " said Livingstone, curtly. 

He was miffed, offended, aggrieved. He had intended to do a kind thingby this man, and he had met with a rebuff. 

"I expect to pay you, " he said, coldly. 

The next second he knew he had made an error. A shocked expression cameinvoluntarily over the other's face. 

"Oh! it was not that!--It was--" He paused, reflected half a second. "I'll be there, " he added, and, turning quickly, withdrew, leavingLivingstone feeling very blank and then, somewhat angry. He was angrywith himself for making such a blunder, and then angrier with the clerkfor leading him into it. 

"That is the way with such people!" he reflected. "What is the use ofbeing considerate and generous? No one appreciates it!"

The more he thought of it, the warmer he became. "Had he not taken Clarkup ten--fifteen years ago, when he had not a cent in the world, and nowhe was getting fifteen hundred dollars a year--yes, sixteen hundred, and almost owned his house; and he had made every cent for him!"

At length, Livingstone's sense of injury became so strong, he couldstand it no longer. He determined to have a talk with Clark. 

He opened the door and walked into the outer office. One of the youngerclerks was just buttoning up his overcoat. Livingstone detected a scowlon his face. The sight did not improve Livingstone's temper. He wouldhave liked to discharge the boy on the spot. How often had he evercalled on them to wait? He knew men who required their clerks to waitalways until they themselves left the office, no matter what the hourwas. He himself would not do this; he regarded it as selfish. But nowwhen it had happened by accident, this was the return he received!

He contented himself with asking somewhat sharply where Mr. Clark was. 

"Believe he's gone to the telephone, " said the clerk, sulkily. Hepicked up his hat and said good-night hurriedly. He was evidently gladto get off. 

Livingstone returned to his own room; but left the door ajar so that hecould see Clark when he returned. When, however, a few momentsafterwards Clark appeared Livingstone had cooled down. Why should heexpect gratitude? He did not pay Clark for gratitude, but for work, andthis the clerk did faithfully. It was an ungrateful world, anyhow. 

At that moment there was a light knock at the outer door, and, onClark's bidding, some one entered. 

Livingstone, from where he sat, could see the door reflected in a mirrorthat hung in his office. 

The visitor was a little girl. She was clad in a red jacket, and on herhead was a red cap, from under which her hair pushed in a profusion ofringlets. Her cheeks were like apples, and her whole face was glowingfrom the frosty air. It was just her head that Livingstone saw first, asshe poked it in and peeped around. Then, as Mr. Clark sat with his backto the door and she saw that no one else was present, the visitorinserted her whole body and, closing the door softly, with her eyesdancing and her little mouth puckered up in a mischievous way, she cameon tiptoe across the floor, stealing towards Clark until she was withina few feet of him, when with a sudden little rush she threw her armsabout his head and clapped her hands quickly over his eyes:

"Guess who it is?" she cried. 

Livingstone could hear them through the open door. 

"Blue Beard, " hazarded Mr. Clark. 

"No--o!"

"Queen Victoria?"

"No--o--o!"

"Mary, Queen of Scots?--I know it's a queen. "

"No. Now you are not guessing--It isn't any queen, at all. "

"Yes, I am--Oh! I know--Santa Claus. "

"No; but somebody 'at knows about him. "

"Mr. L--m--m--"

Livingstone was not sure that he caught the name. 

"No!!" in a very emphatic voice and with a sudden stiffening and avehement shake of the head. 

Livingstone knew now whose name it was. 

"Now, if you guess right this time, you'll get a reward. "

"What reward?"

"Why, --Santa Claus will bring you a whole lot of nice--"

"I don't believe that;--he will be too busy with some other folks Iknow, who--"

"No, he won't--I know he's going to bring you--Oh!" She suddenly tookone hand from Clark's eyes and clapped it over her mouth--but nextsecond replaced it. --"And besides, I'll give you a whole lot of kisses. "

"Oh! yes, I know--the Princess with the Golden Locks, Santa Claus'sPartner--the sweetest little kitten in the world, and her name is--KittyClark. "

"Umhm--m!" And on a sudden, the arms were transferred from about theforehead to the neck and the little girl, with her sunny head canted toone side, was making good her promise of reward. Livingstone could hearthe kisses. 

The next second they moved out of the line of reflection inLivingstone's mirror. But he could still catch fragments of what theysaid. Clark spoke too low to be heard; but now and then, Livingstonecould catch the little girl's words. Indeed, he could not help hearingher. 

"Oh! papa!" she exclaimed in a tone of disappointment, replying tosomething her father had told her. 

"But papa you _must_ come--You _promised_!"

Again her father talked to her low and soothingly. 

"But papa--I'm so disappointed--I've saved all my money just to have yougo with me. And mamma--I'll go and ask him to let you come. "

Her father evidently did not approve of this, and the next moment he ledthe child to the door, still talking to her soothingly, and Livingstoneheard him kiss her and tell her to wait for him below. 

Livingstone let himself out of his side-door. He did not want to meetClark just then. He was not in a comfortable frame of mind. He had alittle headache. 

As he turned into the street, he passed the little girl he had seenup-stairs. She was wiping her little, smeared face with herhandkerchief, and had evidently been crying. Livingstone, as he passed, caught her eye, and she gave him such a look of hate that it stung himto the quick. 

"The little serpent!" thought he. "Here he was supporting her family, and she looking as if she could tear him to pieces! It showed howungrateful this sort of people were. "

CHAPTER IV

Livingstone walked up town. It would, he felt, do his head good. Heneeded exercise. He had been working rather too hard of late. However, he was worth--yes, all that!--Out in the snow the sum was before him incold facsimile. 

He had not gone far before he wished he had ridden. The street wasthronged with people: some streaming along; others stopping in front ofthe big shop-windows, blocking the way and forcing such as were in ahurry to get off the sidewalk. The shop-windows were all brilliantlydressed and lighted. Every conception of fertile brains was there toarrest the attention and delight the imagination. And the interest ofthe throngs outside and in testified the shopkeepers' success. 

Here Santa Claus, the last survivor of the old benefactors, who hasoutlasted whole hierarchies of outworn myths and, yet firm in thedevotion of the heart of childhood, snaps his fingers alike at aridscience and blighting stupidity, was driving his reindeer, his teemingsleigh filled with wonders from every region: dolls that walked andtalked and sang, fit for princesses; sleds fine enough for princes;drums and trumpets and swords for young heroes; horses that looked asthough they were alive and would spring next moment from their rockers;bats and balls that almost started of themselves from their places;little uniforms, and frocks; skates; tennis-racquets; baby caps andrattles; tiny engines and coaches; railway trains; animals that ranabout; steamships; books; pictures--everything to delight the soul ofchildhood and gratify the affection of age. 

There Kris Kringle, Santa Claus's other self, with snowy beard, and furcoat hoary with the frost of Arctic travel from the land of unfailingsnow and unfailing toys, stood beside his tree glittering with crystaland shining with the fruits of every industry and every clime. 

These were but a part of the dazzling display that was ever repeatedover and over and filled the windows for squares and squares. Scienceand Art appeared to have combined to pay tribute to childhood. The verystreet seemed to have blossomed with Christmas. 

But Livingstone saw nothing of it. He was filled with anger that his wayshould be blocked. The crowds were gay and cheery. Strangers in sheergood-will clapped each other on the shoulder and exchanged views, confidences and good wishes. The truck-drivers, usually so surly, drewout of each others' way and shouted words of cheer after their smilingfellows. 

The soul of Christmas was abroad on the air. 

Livingstone did not even recall what day it was. All he saw was a crowdof fools that impeded his progress. He tried the middle of the street;but the carriages and delivery-wagons were so thick, that he turned off, growling, and took a less frequented thoroughfare, a back street of meanhouses and small shops where a poorer class of people dwelt and dealt. 

Here, however, he was perhaps even more incommoded than he had beenbefore. This street was, if anything, more crowded than the other andwith a more noisy and hilarious throng. Here, instead of fine shops, there were small ones; but their windows were every bit as attractive tothe crowds on the street as those Livingstone had left. People of a muchpoorer class surged in and out of the doors; small gamins, some inragged overcoats, more in none, gabbled with and shouldered each otherboisterously at the windows and pressed their red noses to the frostypanes, to see through the blurred patches made by their warm breath thewondrous marvels within. The little pastry-shops and corner-groceriesvied with the toy-shops and confectionaries, and were packed with apopulation that hummed like bees, the busy murmur broken every now andthen by jests and calls and laughter, as the customers squeezed inempty-handed, or slipped out with carefully-wrapped parcels hugged closeto their cheery bosoms or carried in their arms with careful pride. 

Livingstone finally was compelled to get off the sidewalk again and taketo the street. Here, at least, there were no fine carriages to block hisway. 

As he began to approach a hill, he was aware of yells of warning aheadof him, and, with shouts of merriment, a swarm of sleds began to shootby him, some with dark objects lying flat on their little stomachs, kicking their heels high in the air; others with small single or doubleor triple headed monsters seated upright and all screaming at the top oftheir merry voices. All were unmindful of the falling snow and nippingair, their blood hot with the ineffable fire of youth that flames in thewarm heart of childhood, glows in that of youth, and cools only with thecooling brain and chilling pulse. 

Before Livingstone could press back into the almost solid mass on thesidewalk he had come near being run down a score of times. He felt thatit was an outrage. He fairly flamed with indignation. He, a largetaxpayer, a generous contributor to asylums and police funds, asupporter of hospitals, --that he should be almost killed!

He looked around for a policeman--

"Whoop! Look out! Get out the way!" Swish! Swish! Swish! they shot by. Livingstone had to dodge for his life. Of course, no policeman was insight!

Livingstone pushed his way on to the top of the ascent, and a squarefurther on he found an officer inspecting silently a group of noisyurchins squabbling over the division of two sticks of painted candy. Hisback was towards the hill from which were coming the shouts of thesliding miscreants. 

Livingstone accosted him:

"That sliding, back there, must be stopped. It is a nuisance, " heasserted. --It was dangerous, he declared; he himself had almost beenstruck by one or more of those sleds and if it had run him down it mighthave killed him. 

The officer, after a long look at him, turned silently and walked slowlyin the direction of the hill. He moved so deliberately and with suchevident reluctance that Livingstone's blood boiled. He hurried afterhim. 

"Here, " he said, as he overtook him, "I am going to see that you stopthat sliding and enforce the law, or I shall report you for failure toperform your duty. I see your number--268. "

"All right, sir. You can do as you please about that, " said the officer, rather surlily, but politely. 

Livingstone walked close after him to the hilltop. The officer spoke afew words in a quiet tone to the boys who were at the summit, andinstantly every sled stopped. Not so the tongues. Babel broke loose. Some went off in silence; others crowded about the officer, expostulating, cajoling, grumbling. It was "the first snow;" they"always slid on that hill;" "it did not hurt anybody;" "nobody cared, "etc. 

"This gentleman has complained, and you must stop, " said the officer. 

They all turned on Livingstone with sudden hate. 

"Arr-oh-h!" they snarled in concert. "We ain't a-hurtin' him! What's hegot to do wid us anyhow!"

One more apt archer than the rest, shouted, "He ain't no gentleman--a_gentleman_ don't never interfere wid poor little boys what ain't a-donehim no harm!"

But they stopped, and the more timid or impatient stole off to find newand less inconveniently guarded inclines. 

Livingstone passed on. He did not know that the moment he left and theofficer turned his back, the whole hillside swarmed again into life andfun and joy. He did not know this; but he bore off with him a new thornwhich even his feeling of civic virtue could not keep from rankling. Hishead ached, and he grew crosser and crosser with every step. 

He had never seen so many beggars. It was insufferable. For thisevening, at least, every one was giving--except Livingstone. Want wasstretching out its withered hand even to Poverty and found it filled. But Livingstone took no part in it. The chilly and threadbarestreet-venders of shoe-strings, pencils and cheap flowers, who to-nightwere offering in their place tin toys, mistletoe and holly-boughs, hepushed roughly out of his way; he snapped angrily at beggars who had thetemerity to accost him. 

"Confound them! They ought to be run in by the police!"

A red-faced, collarless man fell into the same gait with him, and in acajoling tone began to mutter something of his distress. 

"Be off. Go to the Associated Charities, " snarled Livingstone, consciousof the biting sarcasm of his speech. 

"Go where, sir?"

"Go to the devil!"

The man stopped in his tracks. 

A ragged, meagre boy slid in through the crowd just ahead ofLivingstone, to a woman who was toiling along with a large bundle. Holding out a pinched hand, he offered to carry the parcel for her. Thewoman hesitated. 

--"For five cents, " he pleaded. 

She was about to yield, for the bundle was heavy. But the boy was justin front of Livingstone and in his eagerness brushed against him. Livingstone gave him a shove which sent him spinning away across thesidewalk; the stream of passers-by swept in between them, and the boylost his job and the woman his service. 

The man of success passed on. 

CHAPTER V

If Livingstone had been in a huff when he left his office, by the timehe reached his home he was in a rage. 

As he let himself in with his latch-key his expression for a momentsoftened. The scene before him was one which might well have mellowed aman just out of the snowy street. A spacious and handsome house, bothrichly and artistically furnished, lay before him. Rich furniture, costly rugs, fine pictures and rare books, gave evidence not only of hiswealth but of his taste. He was not a mere business machine, a meremoney-maker. He knew men who were. He despised them. He was a man oftaste and culture, a gentleman of refinement. He spent his money like agentleman, to surround himself with objects of art and to give himselfand his friends pleasure. Connoisseurs came to look at his finecollection and to revel in his rare editions. Dealers had told him hiscollection was worth double what it had cost him. He had frowned at thesuggestion; but it was satisfactory to know it. 

As Livingstone entered his library and found a bright fire burning; hisfavorite arm-chair drawn up to his especial table; his favorite bookslying within easy reach, he felt a momentary glow. 

He stretched himself out before the fire in his deep lounging-chair witha feeling of relief. The next moment, however, he was sensible of hisfatigue, and was conscious that he had quite a headache. What a fool hehad been to walk up through the snow! And those people had worried him!

His head throbbed. He had been working too hard of late. He would go andsee his doctor next day and talk it over with him. He could now take hisadvice and stop working for a while; he was worth--Confound thosefigures! Why could not he think of them without their popping in beforehis eyes that way!

There was a footfall on the heavily carpeted floor behind him, so softthat it could scarcely be said to have made a sound, but Livingstonecaught it. He spoke without turning his head. 

"James!"

"Yes, sir. Have you dined, sir?"

"Dined? No, of course not! Where was I to dine?"

"I thought perhaps you had dined at the club. I will have dinnerdirectly, sir, " said the butler quietly. 

"Dine at the club! Why should I dine at the club? Haven't I my own houseto dine in?" demanded Livingstone. 

"Yes, sir. We had dinner ready, only--as you were so late we thoughtperhaps you were dining at the club. You had not said anything aboutdining out. "

Livingstone glanced at the clock. It was half-past eight. He had had noidea it was so late. He had forgotten how late it was when he left hisoffice, and the walk through the snow had been slow. He was hopelesslyin the wrong. 

Just then there was a scurry in the hall outside and the squeak ofchildish voices. James coughed and turned quickly towards the door. 

Livingstone wanted an outlet. 

"What is that?" he asked, sharply. 

James cleared his throat nervously. The squeak came again--this timealmost a squeal. 

"Whose children are those?" demanded Livingstone. 

"Ahem! I thinks they's the laundress's, sir. They just came around thisevening--"

Livingstone cut him short. 

"Well! I--!" He was never nearer an outbreak, but he controlled himself. 

"Go down and send them and her off immediately; and you--" He paused, closed his lips firmly, and changed his speech. "I wish some dinner, " hesaid coldly. 

"Yes, sir. "

James had reached the door when he turned. 

"Shall you be dining at home to-morrow, sir?" he asked, quietly. 

"Yes, of course, " said Livingstone, shortly. "And I don't want to seeany one to-night, no matter who comes. I am tired. " He had forgottenClark. 

"Yes, sir. "

The butler withdrew noiselessly, and Livingstone sank back in his chair. But before the butler was out of hearing Livingstone recalled him. 

"I don't want any dinner. "

"Can have it for you directly, sir, " said James, persuasively. 

"I say I don't want any. "

James came a little closer and gave his master a quick glance. 

"Are you feeling bad, sir?" he asked. 

"No, I only want to be let alone. I shall go out presently to the club. "

This time James withdrew entirely. 

What happened when James passed through the door which separated hisdomain from his master's was not precisely what Livingstone hadcommanded. What the tall butler did was to gather up in his arms twovery plump little tots who at sight of him came running to him withsqueals of joy, flinging themselves on him, and choking him with theirchubby arms, to the imminent imperiling of his immaculate linen. 

Taking them both up together, James bore them off quietly to some remoteregion where he filled their little mouths full of delightful candywhich kept their little jaws working tremendously and their blue eyesopening and shutting in unison, whilst he told them of the dreadfulunnamed things that would befall them if they ventured again throughthat door. He impressed on them the calamity it would be to lose theprivilege of holding the evergreens whilst they were being put up in thehall, and the danger of Santa Claus passing by that night withoutfilling their stockings. 

The picture he drew of two little stockings hanging limp and empty atthe fireplace while Santa Claus went by with bulging sleigh washarrowing. 

At mention of it, the tots both looked down at their stockings and wereso overcome that they almost stopped working their jaws, so that whenthey began again they were harder to work than ever. To this James addedthe terror of their failing to see next day the great plum-puddingsuddenly burst into flame in his hands. At this, he threw up both handsand opened them so wide that the little ones had to look first at one ofhis hands and then at the other to make sure that he was not actuallyholding the dancing flames now. 

When they had promised faithfully and with deep awe, crossing theirlittle hearts with smudgy fingers, the butler entrusted them to some oneto see to the due performance of their good intention, and he himselfsought the cook, who, next to himself, was Livingstone's oldest servant. She was at the moment, with plump arms akimbo on her stout waist, layingdown the law of marriage to a group of merry servants as they sortedChristmas wreaths. 

"Wait till you've known a man twenty years before you marry him, andthen you'll never marry him, " she said. The point of her advice beingthat she was past forty and had never married. 

The butler beckoned her out and confided to her his anxiety. 

"He is not well, " he said gloomily. "I have not see him this a-way inten years. He is not well. "

The cook's cheery countenance changed. 

"But you say he have had no dinner. " Her excessive grammar was areassurance. She turned alertly towards her range. 

"But he won't have dinner. "

"What!" The stiffness went out of her form in visible detachments. "Thenhe air sick!"

She made one attempt to help matters. "Can't I make him something nice?Very nice?--And light?" She brightened at the hope. 

"No, nothink. He will not hear to it. "

"Then you must have the doctor. " She spoke decisively. 

To this the butler made no reply, at least in words. He stood wrapt indeep abstraction, his face filled with perplexity and gloom, and as thecook watched him anxiously her face too took on gradually the sameexpression. 

"I has not see him like this before, not in ten year--not in twelveyear. Not since he got that letter from that young lady what--. " Hestopped and looked at the cook. --"He was hactually hirascible!"

"He must be got to bed, poor dear!" said the cook, sympathetically. "Andyou must get the doctor, and I'll make some good rich broth to have ithandy. --And just when we were a-goin' to dress the house and have it sobeautiful!"

She turned away, her round face full of woe. 

"Ah! Well!--" The butler tried to find some sentence that might becomforting; but before he could secure one that suited, the door bellrang, and he went to answer it. 

CHAPTER VI

It was Mr. Clark, who as soon as the door was opened stepped within andtaking off his hat began to shake the snow from it, even while hegreeted James and wished him a merry Christmas. 

James liked Mr. Clark. He did not rate him very highly in the matter ofintelligence; but he recognized him as a gentleman, and appreciated hiskindly courtesy to himself. He knew it came from a good heart. 

Many a man who drove up to the door in a carriage, James relieved of hiscoat and showed into the drawing-room in silence; but the downcast eyeswere averted to conceal inconvenient thoughts and the expressionlessface was a mask to hide views which the caller might not have cared todiscover. Mr. Clark, however, always treated James with consideration, and James reciprocated the feeling and returned the treatment. 

Mr. Clark was giving James his hat when the butler took in that he hadcome to see Mr. Livingstone. 

"Mr. Livingstone begs to be excused this evening, sir, " he said. 

"Yes. " Mr. Clark laid a package on a chair and proceeded to unbutton hisovercoat. 

"He says he regrets he cannot see any one, " explained the servant. 

"Yes. That's all right. I know. " He caught the lapels of the coatpreparatory to taking it off. 

"No, sir. He cannot see _anybody_ at all this evening, " insisted James, confident in being within his authority. 

"Why, he told me to come and bring his books! I suppose he meant--!"

"No, sir. He is not very well this evening. "

Mr. Clark's hands dropped to his side. 

"Not well! Why, he left the office only an hour or two ago. "

"Yes, sir; but he walked up, and seemed very tired when he arrived. Hedid not eat anything, and--the doctor is coming to see him. "

Mr. Clark's face expressed the deepest concern. 

"He has been working too hard, " he said, shaking his head. "He ought tohave let me go over those accounts. With all he has to carry!"

"Yes, sir, that's it, " said James, heartily. 

"Well, don't you think I'd better go up and see him?" asked the oldclerk, solicitously. "I might be able to suggest something?"

"No, sir. He said quite positive he would not see _anybody_. " Jameslooked the clerk full in the face. "I was afraid something might 'ave'appened down in the--ah--?"

Mr. Clark's face lit up with a kindly light. 

"No, indeed. It's nothing like that, James. We never had so good a year. You can make your mind easy about that. "

"Thank you, sir, " said the servant. "We'll have the doctor drop in tosee him, and I hope he'll be all right in the morning. Snowy night, sir. "

"I hope so, " said Mr. Clark, not intending to convey his views as to theweather. "You'll let me know if I am wanted--if I can do anything. Iwill come around first thing in the morning to see how he is. I hopehe'll be all right. Good-night. A merry Christmas to you. "

"Good-night, sir. Thankee, sir; the same to you, sir. I'm going to waitup to see how he is. Good-night, sir. "

And James shut the door softly behind the visitor, feeling a sense ofcomfort not wholly accounted for by the information as to the successfulyear. Mr. Clark, somehow, always reassured him. The butler couldunderstand the springs that moved that kindly spirit. 

What Mr. Clark thought as he tramped back through the snow need not befully detailed. But at least, one thing was certain, he never thought ofhimself. 

If he recalled that a mortgage would be due on his house just one weekfrom that day, and that the doctors' bills had been unusually heavy thatyear, it was not on his own account that he was anxious. Indeed, henever considered himself; there were too many others to think of. Onethought was that he was glad his friend had such a good servant as Jamesto look after him. Another was pity that Livingstone had never known thejoy that was awaiting himself when at the end of that mile of snow heshould peep into the little cosy back room (for the front room wasmysteriously closed this evening), where a sweet-faced, frail-lookingwoman would be lying on a lounge with a half-dozen little curly headsbobbing about her. He knew what a scream of delight would greet him ashe poked his head in; and out in the darkness and cold John Clark smiledand smacked his lips as he thought of the kisses and squeezes, andrenewed kisses that would be his lot as he told how he would be withthem all the evening. 

Yes, he was undoubtedly sorry for Livingstone, a poor lonely man in thatgreat house; and he determined that he would not say much about hisbeing ill. Women did not always exactly understand some men, and when heleft home, Mrs. Clark had expressed some very strong views as toLivingstone which had pained Clark. She had even spoken of him asselfish and miserly. He would just say now that Livingstone on hisarrival had sent him straight back home. 

No, Mr. Clark never thought of himself, and this made him richer thanMr. Livingstone. 

When Mr. Clark reached home his expectation was more than realized. Fromthe way in which he noiselessly opened the front door and then stolealong the little passage to the back room, from which the sound of manyvoices was coming as though it were a mimic Babel, you might havethought he was a thief. 

And when he opened the door softly and, with dancing eyes, poked hishead into the room, you might have thought he was Santa Claus himself. There was one second of dead silence as a half-dozen pair of eyesstretched wide and a half-dozen mouths opened with a gasp, and then, with a shout which would have put to the blush a tribe of wild Indians, a half-dozen young bodies flung themselves upon him with screams andshrieks of delight. John Clark's neck must have been of iron towithstand such hugs and tugs as it was given. 

The next instant he was drawn bodily into the room and pushed downforcibly into a chair, whilst the whole half-dozen piled upon him withdemands to be told how he had managed to get off and come back. No onebut Clark could have understood them or answered them, but somehow, ashis arms seemed able to gather in the whole lot of struggling, squeezing, wriggling, shoving little bodies, so his ears seemed to catchall the questions and his mind to answer each in turn and all together. 

"'How did I come?'--Ran every step of the way. --'Why did I comeback?'--Well! that's a question for a man with eight children who willsit up and keep Santa Claus out of the house unless their father comeshome and puts them to bed and holds their eyelids down to keep them frompeeping and scaring Santa Claus away!

--"'What did Mr. Livingstone say?'--Well, what do you suppose a manwould say Christmas Eve to another man who has eight wide-awake childrenwho will sit up in front of the biggest fire-place in the house untilmidnight Christmas Eve so that Santa Claus can't come down the onlychimney big enough to hold his presents? He would say, 'John Clark, Ihave no children of my own, but you have eight, and if you don't go homethis minute and see that those children are in bed and fast asleep andsnoring, --yes, snoring, mind, --by ten o'clock, I'll never, and SantaClaus will never--!'

--"'Did I see anything of Santa Claus?' Well, if I were to tellyou--what I saw this night, why, --you'd never believe me. There's asleigh so big coming in a little while to this town, and this street, and this house, that it holds presents enough for--. 

"'When will it be here?' Well, from the sleigh-bells that I heard Ishould say--. My goodness, gracious! If it isn't almost ten o'clock, andif that sleigh should get here whilst there's a single eye open in thishouse, I don't know what Santa Claus might do!"

And, with a strength that one might have thought quite astonishing, JohnClark rose somehow from under the mass of little heads, and, with hisarms still around them, still talking, still cajoling, stillentertaining and still caressing, he managed to bear the whole curly, chattering flock to the door where, with renewed kisses and squeezes andquestions, they were all finally induced to release their hold and runsqueaking and frisking off upstairs to bed. 

Then, as he closed the door, Clark turned and looked at the only otheroccupant of the room, a lady whose pale face would have told her storyeven had she not remained outstretched on a lounge during the precedingscene. 

If, however, Mrs. Clark's face was pale, her eyes were brilliant, andthe look that she and her husband exchanged told that even invalidismand narrow means have alleviations, so full was the glance they gave ofconfidence and joy. 

Yet, as absolute as was their confidence, Mr. Clark did not now tell hiswife the truth. He gave her in a few words the reason of his return. Mr. Livingstone was feeling unwell, he said. He had not remembered it wasChristmas Eve, he added; and, turning quickly and opening the door intothe front room he guilefully dived at once into the matter of theChristmas-tree which was standing there waiting to be dressed. 

Whether or not Mr. Clark deceived Mrs. Clark might be a matter ofquestion. Mr. Clark was not good at deception. Mrs. Clark was better atit; but then, to-night was a night of peace and good-will, and since herhusband had returned she was willing to forgive even Livingstone. 

CHAPTER VII

Livingstone, at this moment, was not feeling as wealthy as the row offigures in clean-cut lines that were now beginning to be almostconstantly before his eyes might have seemed to warrant. He was sittingsunk deep in his cushioned arm-chair. The tweaks in his forehead thathad annoyed him earlier in the evening had changed to twinges, and thetwinges had now given place to a dull, steady ache. And every thought ofhis wealth brought that picture of seven staring figures before hiseyes, whilst, in place of the glow which they had brought at first, henow at every recollection of them had a cold thrill of apprehension lestthey might appear. 

James's inquiry, "Shall you be dining at home to-morrow?" had recurredto him and now disturbed him. It was a simple question; nothingremarkable in it. It now came to him that to-morrow was Christmas Day, and he had forgotten it. This was remarkable. He had never forgotten itbefore, but this year he had been working so hard and had been soengrossed he had not thought of it. Even this reflection brought thespectral figures back sharply outlined before his eyes. They stayedlonger now. He must think of something else. 

He thought of Christmas. This was the first Christmas he had ever beenat home by himself. A Christmas dinner alone! Who had ever heard of sucha thing! He must go out to dinner, of course. He glanced over at histable where James always put his mail. Everything was in perfect order:the book he had read the night before; the evening paper and the lastfinancial quotation were all there; but not a letter. James must haveforgot them. 

He turned to rise and ring the bell and glanced across the room towardsit. What a dark room it was! What miserable gas!

He turned up the light at his hand. It did not help perceptibly. He sankback. What selfish dogs people were, he reflected. Of all the hosts ofpeople he knew, --people who had entertained him and whom he hadentertained, --not one had thought to invite him to the Christmas dinner. A dozen families at whose houses he had often been entertained flashedacross his mind. Why, years ago he used to have a half-dozen invitationsto Christmas dinner, and now he had not one! Even Mrs. Wright, to whomhe had just sent a contribution for--Hello! that lantern-slide again! Itwould not do to think of figures. --Even she had not thought of him. 

There must be some reason? he pondered. Yes, Christmas dinners werealways family reunions--that was the reason he was left out andforgotten;--yes, forgotten. A list of the people who he knew would havesuch reunions came to him; almost every one of his acquaintances had afamily;--even Clark had a family and would have a Christmas dinner. 

At the thought, a pang almost of envy of Clark smote him. 

Suddenly his own house seemed to grow vast and empty and lonely; he feltperfectly desolate, --abandoned--alone--ill! He glanced around at hispictures. They were cold, staring, stony, dead! The reflection of thecross lights made them look ghastly. 

As he gazed at them the figures they had cost shot before his eyes. MyGod! he could not stand this! He sprang to his feet. Even the pain ofgetting up was a relief. He stared around him. Dead silence and stonyfaces were all about him. The capacious room seemed a vast, emptycavern, and as he stood he saw stretching before him his whole futurelife spent in this house, as lonely, silent, and desolate as this. Itwas unbearable. 

He walked through to his drawing-room. The furniture was sheeted, theroom colder and lonelier a thousand-fold than the other;--on into thedining-room;--the bare table in the dim light looked like ice; thesideboard with its silver and glass, bore sheets of ice. "Pshaw!" Heturned up the lights. He would take a drink of brandy and go to bed. 

He took a decanter, poured out a drink and drained it off. His handtrembled, but the stimulant helped him a little. It enabled him tocollect his ideas and think. But his thoughts still ran on Christmas andhis loneliness. 

Why should not he give a Christmas dinner and invite his friends? Yes, that was what he would do. Whom should he ask? His mind began to runover the list. Every one he knew had his own house; and as tofriends--why, he didn't have any friends! He had only acquaintances. Hestopped suddenly, appalled by the fact. He had not a friend in theworld! Why was it? In answer to the thought the seven figures flashedinto sight. He put his hand to his eyes to shut them out. He knew nowwhy. He had been too busy to make friends. He had given his youth andhis middle manhood to accumulate--those seven figures again!--And he hadgiven up his friendships. He was now almost aged. 

He walked into his drawing-room and turned up the light--all the lightsto look at himself in a big mirror. He did look at himself and he wasconfounded. He was not only no longer young--he was prepared forthis--but he was old. He would not have dreamed he could be so old. Hewas gray and wrinkled. 

As he faced himself his blood seemed suddenly to chill. He was consciousof a sensible ebb as if the tide about his heart had suddenly sunklower. Perhaps, it was the cooling of the atmosphere as the fire in hislibrary died out, --or was it his blood?

He went back into his library not ten minutes, but ten years older thanwhen he left it. 

He sank into his chair and insensibly began to scan his life. He hadjust seen himself as he was; he now saw himself as he had been long ago, and saw how he had become what he was. The whole past lay before himlike a slanting pathway. 

He followed it back to where it began--in an old home far off in thecountry. 

He was a very little boy. All about was the bustle and stir ofpreparation for Christmas. Cheer was in every face, for it was in everyheart. Boxes were coming from the city by every conveyance. Thestore-room and closets were centres of unspeakable interest, shrouded indelightful mystery. The kitchen was lighted by the roaring fire andsteaming from the numberless good things preparing for the next day'sfeast. Friends were arriving from the distant railway and were greetedwith universal delight. The very rigor of the weather was deemed a partof the Christmas joy, for it was known that Santa Claus with hisjingling sleigh came the better through the deeper snow. Everything gavethe little boy joy, particularly going with his father and mother tobear good things to poor people who lived in smaller houses. They werealways giving; but Christmas was the season for a more general andgenerous distribution. He recalled across forty years his father andmother putting the presents into his hands to bestow, and his father'swords, "My boy, learn the pleasure of giving. "

The rest was all blaze and light and glow, and his father and mothermoving about like shining spirits amid it all. 

Then he was a schoolboy, measuring the lagging time by the comingChristmas; counting the weeks, the days, the hours in an ecstasy ofimpatience until he should be free from the drudgery of books and theslavery of classes, and should be able to start for home with thefriends who had leave to go with him. How slowly the time crept by, andhow he told the other boys of the joys that would await them! And whenit had really gone, and they were free! how delicious it used to be!

As the scene appeared before him Livingstone could almost feel again thethrill that set him quivering with delight; the boundless joy thatfilled his veins as with an elixir. 

The arrival at the station drifted before him and the pride of hisintroduction of the servants whose faces shone with pleasure; the drivehome through the snow, which used somehow to be warming, not chilling, in those days; and then, through the growing dusk, the first sight ofthe home-light, set, he knew, by the mother in her window as a beaconshining from the home and mother's heart. Then the last, toilsome climbup the home-hill and the outpouring of welcome amid cheers and shoutsand laughter. 

Oh, the joy of that time! And through all the festivity was felt, like asort of pervading warmth, the fact that that day Christ came into theworld and brought peace and good will and cheer to every one. 

The boy Livingstone saw was now installed regularly as the bearer ofChristmas presents and good things to the poor, and the pleasure he tookthen in his office flashed across Livingstone's mind like a suddenlight. It lit up the faces of many whom Livingstone had not thought offor years. They were all beaming on him now with a kindliness to whichhe had long been a stranger; that kindliness which belongs only to ourmemory of our youth. 

Was it possible that he could ever have had so many friends! The man inthe chair put his hand to his eyes to try and hold the beautiful vision, but it faded away, shut out from view by another. 

CHAPTER VIII

The vision that came next was of a college student. The Christmasholidays were come again. They were still as much the event of the yearas when he was a schoolboy. Once more he was on his way home accompaniedby friends whom he had brought to help him enjoy the holidays, hisenjoyment doubled by their enjoyment. Once more, as he touched the soilof his own neighborhood, from a companion he became a host. Once morewith his friends he reached his old home and was received with thatgreeting which he never met with elsewhere. He saw his father and motherstanding on the wide portico before the others with outstretched arms, affection and pride beaming in their faces. He witnessed their cordialgreeting of his friends. "Our son's friends are our friends, " he heardthem say. 

Henry Trelane said afterwards, "Why, Livingstone, you have told me ofyour home and your horses, but never told me of your father and mother. Do you know that they are the best in the world?" Somehow, it had seemedto open his eyes, and the manner in which his friends had hung on hisfather's words had increased his own respect for him. One of them hadsaid, "Livingstone, I like you, but I love your father. " The phrase, heremembered, had not altogether pleased him, and yet it had notaltogether displeased him either. But Henry Trelane was very near to himin those days. Not only was he the soul of honor and high-mindedness, with a mind that reflected truth as an unruffled lake reflects the sky, but he was the brother of Catherine Trelane, who then stood toLivingstone for Truth itself. 

It was during a Christmas-holiday visit to her brother that Livingstonehad first met Catherine Trelane; as he now saw himself meet her. He hadcome on her suddenly in a long avenue. Her arms were full ofholly-boughs; her face was rosy from a victorious tramp through thesnow, rosier at the hoped-for, unexpected, chance meeting with herbrother's guest; a sprig of mistletoe was stuck daringly in her hood, guarded by her mischievous, laughing eyes. She looked like a dryad freshfrom the winter woods. For years after that Livingstone had neverthought of Christmas without being conscious of a certain radiance thatvision shed upon the time. 

The next day in the holly-dressed church she seemed a saint wrapt indivine adoration. 

Another shift of the scene; another Christmas. 

Reverses had come. His father, through kindness and generosity, hadbecome involved beyond his means, and, rather than endure the leastshadow of reproach, gave up everything he possessed to save his nameand shield a friend. Livingstone himself had been called away fromcollege. 

He remembered the sensation of it all. He recalled the picture of hisfather as he stood calm and unmoved amid the wreck of his fortune andfaced unflinchingly the hard, dark future. It was an inspiring picture:the picture of a gentleman, far past the age when men can start afreshand achieve success, despoiled by another and stripped of all he had inthe world, yet standing upright and tranquil; a just man walking in hisintegrity; a brave man facing the world; firm as an immovable rock;serene as an unblemished morning. 

Livingstone had never taken in before how fine it was. He had at onetime even felt aggrieved by his father's act; now he was suddenlyconscious of a thrill of pride in him. 

If he were only living! He himself was now worth--! Suddenly thatlantern-slide shot before his eyes and shut out the noble figurestanding there. 

Livingstone's mind reverted to his own career. 

He was a young man in business; living in a cupboard; his salary a barepittance; yet he was rich; he had hope and youth; family and friends. Heavens! how rich he was then! It made the man in the chair poor now tofeel how rich he had been then and had not known it. He looked back athimself with a kind of envy, strange to him, which gave him a pain. 

He saw himself again at Christmas. He was back at the little home whichhis father had taken when he lost the old place. He saw himselfunpacking his old trunk, taking out from it the little things he hadbrought as presents, with more pride than he had ever felt before, forhe had earned them himself. Each one represented sacrifice, thought, affection. He could see again his father's face lit up with pride andhis mother's radiant with delight in his achievement. His mother washanding him her little presents, --the gloves she had knit for himherself with so much joy; the shaving-case she had herself embroidered;the cup and saucer from the old tea-service that had belonged to hisgreat-grandfather and great-grandmother and which had been given hismother and father when they were married. He glanced up as she laid thedelicate piece of Sèvres before him, and caught her smile--That smile!Was there ever another like it? It held in it--everything. 

Suddenly Livingstone felt something moving on his cheek. He put his handup to his face and when he took it down his fingers were wet. 

With his mother's face, another face came to him, radiant with thebeauty of youth. Catherine Trelane, since that meeting in the longavenue, had grown more and more to him, until all other motives and aimshad been merged in one radiant hope. 

With his love he had grown timid; he scarcely dared look into her eyes;yet now he braved the world for her; bore for her all the privations andhardships of life in its first struggle. Indeed, for her, privation wasno hardship. He was poor in purse, but rich in hope. Love lit up hislife and touched the dull routine of his work with the light ofenchantment. If she made him timid before her, she made him bold towardsthe rest of the world. 'T was for her that he had had the courage totake that plunge into the boiling sea of life in an unknown city, and itwas for her that he had had strength to keep above water, where so manyhad gone down. 

He had faced all for her and had conquered all for her. He recalled thelong struggle, the painful, patient waiting, the stern self-denial. Hehad deliberately chosen between pleasure and success, --between thepresent and the future. He had denied himself to achieve his fortune, and he had succeeded. 

At first, it had been for her; then Success had become dear to him foritself, had ever grown larger and dearer as he advanced, until now--Athrill of pride ran through him, which changed into a shiver as itbrought those accursed, staring, ghastly figures straight before hiseyes. 

He had great trouble to drive the figures away. It was only when hethought fixedly of Catherine Trelane as she used to be that theydisappeared. She was a vision then to banish all else. He had a pictureof her somewhere among his papers. He had not seen it for years, but nopicture could do her justice: as rich as was her coloring, as beautifulas were her eyes, her mouth, her _riante_ face, her slim, willowy, girlish figure and fine carriage, it was not these that came to him whenhe thought of her; it was rather the spirit of which these were but thegolden shell: it was the smile, the music, the sunshine, the radiancewhich came to him and warmed his blood and set his pulses throbbingacross all those years. He would get the picture and look at it. 

But memory swept him on. 

He had got in the tide of success and the current had borne him away. First it had been the necessity to succeed; then ambition; thenopportunity to do better and better always taking firmer hold of him andbearing him further and further until the pressure of business, changeof ambition and, at last, of ideals swept him beyond sight of all he hadknown or cared for. 

He could almost see the process of the metamorphosis. Year after year hehad waited and worked and Catherine Trelane had waited; then had come atime when he did not wish her to wait longer. His ideals had changed. Success had come to mean but one thing for him: gold; he no longerstrove for honors but for riches. He abandoned the thought of glory andof power, of which he had once dreamed. Now he wanted gold. Beauty wouldfade, culture prove futile; but gold was king, and all he saw bowedbefore it. Why marry a poor girl when another had wealth?

He found a girl as handsome as Catherine Trelane. It was not a chapterin his history in which he took much pride. Just when he thought he hadsucceeded, her father had interposed and she had yielded easily. She hadmarried a fool with ten times Livingstone's wealth. It was a blow toLivingstone, but he had recovered, and after that he had a new incentivein life; he would be richer than her father or her husband. 

He had become so and had bought his house partly to testify to thefact. Then he had gone back to Catherine Trelane. She had comeunexpectedly into property. He had not dared quite to face her, but hadwritten to her, asking her to marry him. He had her reply somewhere now;it had cut deeper than she ever knew or would know. She wrote that thetime had been when she might have married him even had he asked her byletter, but it was too late now. The man she might have loved was dead. He had gone to see her then, but had found what she said was true. Shewas more beautiful than when he had last seen her--so beautiful that thecharm of her maturity had almost eclipsed in his mind the memory of hergirlish loveliness. But she was inexorable. He had not blamed her, hehad only cursed himself, and had plunged once more into the boilingcurrent of the struggle for wealth. And he had won--yes, won!

With a shock those figures slipped before his eyes and would not goaway. Even when he shut his eyes and rubbed them the ghastly line wasthere. 

He turned and gazed down the long room. It was as empty as a desert. Helistened to see if he could hear any sound, even hoping to hear somesound from his servants. All was as silent as a tomb. 

He rubbed his eyes, with a groan that was almost a curse. The figureswere still there. 

He suddenly rose to his feet and gave himself a shake. He determined togo to his club; he would find company there, --perhaps not the best, butit would be better than this awful loneliness and deadly silence. 

He went through the hall softly, almost stealthily; put on his hat andcoat; let himself quietly out of the door and stepped forth into thenight. 

It had stopped snowing and the stars looked down from a clearing sky. The moon just above the housetops was sailing along a burnished track. The vehicles went slowly by with a muffled sound broken only by thecreaking of the wheels in the frosty night. From the cross streets, sounded in the distance the jangle of sleigh-bells. 

CHAPTER IX

Livingstone plodded along through the snow, relieved to find that theeffort made him forget himself and banished those wretched figures. Hetraversed the intervening streets and before he was conscious of it wasstanding in the hall of the brilliantly lighted club. The lights dazzledhim, and he was only half sensible of the score of servants thatsurrounded him with vague, half-proffers of aid in removing hisovercoat. 

Without taking off his coat, Livingstone walked on into the largeassembly-room to see who might be there. It was as empty as a church. The lights were all turned on full and the fires burned brightly in thebig hearths; but there was not a soul in the room, usually so crowded atthis hour. 

Livingstone turned and crossed the marble-paved hall to anotherspacious suite of rooms. Not a soul was there. The rooms were swept andgarnished, the silence and loneliness seeming only intensified by thebrilliant light and empty magnificence. 

Livingstone felt like a man in a dream from which he could not awake. Heturned and made his way back to the outer door. As he did so he caughtsight of a single figure at the far end of one of the big rooms. Itlooked like Wright, --the husband of Mrs. Wright to whom Livingstone hadsent his charity-subscription a few hours before. He had on his overcoatand must have just come in. He was standing by the great fire-placerubbing his hands with satisfaction. As Livingstone turned away, hethought he heard his name called, but he dashed out into the night. Hecould not stand Wright just then. 

He plunged back through the snow and once more let himself in at his owndoor. It was lonelier within than before. The hall was ghastly. The bigrooms, bigger than they had ever seemed, were like a desert. It wasintolerable: He would go to bed. 

He slowly climbed the stairs. The great clock on the landing stared athim as he passed and in deep tones tolled the hour--of ten. It wasimpossible! Livingstone knew it must have been hours since he left hisoffice. To him it seemed months, years;--but his own watch marked thesame hour. 

As he entered his bedroom, two pictures hanging on the wall caught hiseye. They were portraits of a gentleman and a lady. Any one would haveknown at a glance that they were Livingstone's father and mother. Theyhad hung there since Livingstone built his house, but he had not thoughtof them in years. Perhaps, that was why they were still there. 

They were early works of one who had since become a master. Livingstoneremembered the day his father had given the order to the young artist. 

"Why do you do that?" some one had asked. "He perhaps has parts, but heis a young man and wholly unknown. "

"That is the very reason I do it, " had said his father. "Those who areknown need no assistance. Help young men, for thereby some have helpedangels unawares. "

It had come true. The unknown artist had become famous, and these earlyportraits were now worth--no, not those figures which suddenly gleamedbefore Livingstone's eyes!--

Livingstone remembered the letter that the artist had written hisfather, tendering him aid when he learned of his father's reverses--hehad said he owed his life to him--and his father's reply, that he neededno aid, and it was sufficient recompense to know that one he had helpedremembered a friend. 

Livingstone walked up and scanned the portrait nearest him. He had notreally looked at it in years. He had had no idea how fine it was. Howwell it portrayed him! There was the same calm forehead, noble in itsbreadth; the same deep, serene, blue eyes;--the artist had caught theirkindly expression;--the same gentle mouth with its pleasant humorlurking at the corners;--the artist had almost put upon the canvas themobile play of the lips;--the same finely cut chin with its well markedcleft. It was the very man. 

Livingstone had had no idea how handsome a man his father was. Heremembered Henry Trelane saying he wished he were an artist to paint hisfather, but that only Van Dyck could have made him as distinguished ashe was. 

He turned to the portrait of his mother. It was a beautiful face and agracious. He remembered that every one except his father had said itwas a fine portrait, but his father had said it was, "only a finepicture; no portrait of her could be fine. "

Moved by the recollection, Livingstone opened a drawer and took from abox the daguerreotype of a boy. He held it in his hand and looked firstat it and then at the portraits on the wall. Yes, it was distinctly likeboth. He remembered it used to be said that he was like his father; buthis father had always said he was like his mother. He could now see theresemblance. There were, even in the round, unformed, boyish face, thesame wide open eyes; the same expression of the mouth, as though a smilewere close at hand; the same smooth, placid brow. His chin was a littlebolder than his father's. Livingstone was pleased to note it. 

He determined to have his portrait painted by the best painter he couldfind. He would not consider the cost. Why should he? He was worth--atthe thought the seven gleaming figures flashed out clear between hiseyes and the portrait in his hand. 

Livingstone turned suddenly and faced himself in the full length mirrorat his side. The light caught him exactly and he stood and lookedhimself full in the face. What he saw horrified him. He felt his heartsink and saw the pallor settle deeper over his face. His hair was almostwhite. He was wrinkled. His eyes were small and sharp and cold. Hismouth was drawn and hard. His cheeks were seamed and set like flint. Hewas a hard, wan, ugly old man; and as he gazed, unexpectedly in themirror before his eyes, flashed those cursed figures. 

With almost a cry Livingstone turned and looked at the portraits on thewall. He half feared the sharp figures would appear branded across thosefaces. But no, thank God! the figures had disappeared. The two facesbeamed down on him sweet and serene and comforting as heaven. 

Under an impulse of relief Livingstone flung himself face downward onthe bed and slipped to his knees. The position and the association itbrought fetched to his lips words which he used to utter in thatpresence long years ago. 

It had been long since Livingstone had prayed. He attended church, butif he had any heart it had not been there. Now this prayer cameinstinctively. It was simple and childish enough: the words that he hadbeen taught at his mother's knee. He hardly knew he had said them; yetthey soothed him and gave him comfort; and from some far-off time camethe saying, "_Except ye become as little children, ye shall notenter_--" and he went on repeating the words. 

Another verse drifted into his mind: "_And he took a child and set himin the midst of them, and said, * * * Whosoever shall humble himself asthis little child, the same is greatest. And whoso shall receive onesuch little child in my name receiveth me. But whoso shall offend one ofthese little ones which believe in me, it were better for him that amillstone were hanged about his neck, and that he were drowned in thedepth of the sea. _"

The events of the evening rose up before Livingstone--the little girl inher red jacket, with her tear-stained face, darting a look of hate athim; the rosy-cheeked boys shouting with glee on the hillside, stoppedin the midst of their fun, and changing suddenly to yell their cries ofhate at him; the shivering beggar asking for work, --for but five cents, which he had withheld from him. 

Livingstone shuddered. Had he done these things? Could it be possible?Into his memory came from somewhere afar off: "_Inasmuch as ye have doneit unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it untome. _"

There flashed through his mind the thought, might he not retrievehimself? Was it too late? Could he not do something for someone?--perhaps, for some little ones?

It was like a flash of light and Livingstone was conscious of a thrillof joy at the idea, but it faded out leaving him in blanker darknessthan before. He did not know a single child. --He knew in a vague, impersonal way a number of children whom he had had a momentary glimpseof occasionally at the fashionable houses which he visited; but he knewthem only as he would have known handsomely dressed dolls in showwindows. He had never thought of them as children, but only as a part ofthe personal belongings of his acquaintances--much as he thought oftheir bric-à-brac or their poodles. They were not like the children hehad once known. He had never seen them romp and play or heard them laughor shout. 

He was sunk in deep darkness. 

In his gloom he glanced up. His father's serene face was beaming down onhim. A speech he had heard his father make long, long ago, came back tohim: "Always be kind to children. Grown people may forget kindness, butchildren will remember it. They forgive, but never forget either akindness or an injury. "

Another speech of his father's came floating to Livingstone across theyears: "If you have made an enemy of a child, make him your friend if ittakes a year! A child's enmity is never incurred except by injustice ormeanness. "

Livingstone could not but think of Clark's little girl. Might she nothelp him? She would know children. But would she help him?

If she were like Clark, he reasoned, she would be kind-hearted. Besides, he remembered to have heard his father say that children did not bearmalice: that was a growth of older minds. It was strange for Livingstoneto find himself recurring to his father for knowledge of humannature--his father whom he had always considered the most ignorant ofmen as to knowledge of the world. 

He sprang to his feet and looked at his watch. Perhaps, it was not yettoo late to see the little girl to-night if he hurried? Clark lived notvery far off, in a little side street, and they would sit up lateChristmas Eve. 

As he turned to the mirror it was with trepidation, his last glance atit had been so dreadful; but he was relieved to find a pleasanterexpression on his face. He almost saw a slight resemblance to hisfather. 

The next moment he hurried from the room; stole down the stair; slippedon his overcoat, and hastily let himself out of the door. 

CHAPTER X

It was quite clear out now and the moon was riding high in a cloudlessheaven. The jingle of sleigh-bells had increased and just as Livingstoneturned the corner a sleigh dashed past him. He heard the merry voices ofyoung people, and amid the voices the ringing laughter of a young girl, clear as a silver bell. 

Livingstone stopped short in his tracks and listened. He had not heardanything so musical in years--he had not heard a young girl's laughterin years--he had not had time to think of such things. It brought backacross the snow-covered fields--across the snow-covered years--aChristmas of long ago when he had heard a young girl's musical laughterlike a silvery chime, and, standing there in the snow-covered street, for one moment Livingstone was young again--no longer a gray-haired manin the city; but a young man in the country, somewhere under greatarching boughs; face to face with one who was also young;--and, lookingout from a hood that surrounded it like a halo, a girlish face flashedon him: cheeks like roses, brilliant with the frosty air; roguish eyes, now dancing, now melting; a laughing mouth from which came such ripplingmusic that there was no simile for it in all the realm of silvery sound, the enchanting music of the joy of youth. 

With a cry, Livingstone sprang forward with outstretched, eager hands tocatch the vision; but his arms enclosed only vacancy and he stood alonein the empty street. 

A large sleigh came by and Livingstone hailed it. It was a liveryvehicle and the driver having just put down at their homes a party ofpleasure-seekers was on his way back to his stable. He agreed withLivingstone to take him to his destination and wait for him, andLivingstone, giving him a number, sprang in and ordered him to driverapidly. 

The sleigh stopped in front of a little house, in a narrow street filledwith little houses, and Livingstone getting out mounted the small flightof steps. Inside, pandemonium seemed to have broken loose somewhereup-stairs, such running and shouting and shrieks of joyous laughterLivingstone heard. Then, as he could not find the bell, Livingstoneknocked. 

At the sound the noise suddenly ceased, but the next moment it burstforth again louder than before. This time the shouts came rolling downthe stairs and towards the door, with a scamper of little feet andshrieks of childish delight. They were interrupted and restrained by aquiet, kindly voice which Livingstone recognized as Clark's. The fatherwas trying to keep the children back. 

It might be Santa Claus himself, Livingstone heard him urge, and if theydid not go back to bed immediately, or into the back room, --or even ifthey peeped, Santa Claus might jump into his sleigh and drive away andleave nobody at the door but a grocer's boy with a parcel. This direfulthreat had its effect. The gleeful squeals were hushed down into subduedand half-awed murmurs and after a little a single footstep came alongthe passage and the front door was opened cautiously. 

At sight of Livingstone, Clark started, and by the light of the lamp thecaller could see his face pale a little. He asked Livingstone in with avoice that almost faltered. Leaving Livingstone in the little passagefor a moment Clark entered the first room--the front room--andLivingstone could hear him sending the occupants into a rear room. Heheard the communicating door close softly. Every sound was suddenlyhushed. It was like the sudden hush of birds when a hawk appears. Livingstone thought of it and a pang shot through him. Then the doorwas opened and Clark somewhat stiffly invited Livingstone in. 

The room was a small front parlor. 

The furniture was old and worn, but it was not mean. A few old piecesgave the room, small as it was, almost an air of distinction. Severalold prints hung on the walls, a couple of portraits in pink crayon, suchas St. Mimin used to paint, and a few photographs in frames, most ofthem of children, --but among them one of Livingstone himself. 

All this Livingstone took in as he entered. The room was in a state ofconfusion, and a lounge on one side, with its pillows still bearing theimprint of an occupant, showed that the house held an invalid. In onecorner a Christmas-tree, half dressed, explained the litter. It was nota very large tree; certainly it was not very richly dressed. The thingsthat hung on it were very simple. Many of them evidently were ofhome-manufacture--knots of ribbon, little garments, second-hand books, even home-made toys. 

A small pile of similar articles lay on the floor, where they had beenplaced ready for service and had been left by the tree-dressers on theirhasty departure. 

Clark's eye followed instinctively that of the visitor. 

"My wife has been dressing a tree for the children, " he said simply. 

He faced Livingstone and offered him a chair. He stiffened as he did so. He was evidently prepared for the worst. 

Livingstone sat down. It was an awkward moment. Livingstone broke theice. 

"Mr. Clark, I have come to ask you a favor--a great favor--"

Clark's eyes opened wide and his lips even parted slightly in hisastonishment. 

"--I want you to lend me your little girl--the little girl I saw in theoffice this afternoon. "

Clark's expression was so puzzled that Livingstone thought he had notunderstood him. 

"'The Princess with the Golden Locks, '" he explained. 

"Mr. Livingstone!--I--I don't understand. " He looked dazed. 

Livingstone broke out suddenly: "Clark, I have been a brute, a cursedbrute!"

"Oh! Mr. Liv--!"

With a gesture of sharp dissent Livingstone cut him short. 

"It is no use to deny it, Clark, --I have--I have!--I have been a brutefor years and I have just awakened to the fact!" He spoke in bitter, impatient accusation. "I have been a brute for years and I have justrealized it. "

The face of the other had softened. 

"Oh, no, Mr. Livingstone, not that. You have always beenjust--and--just;" he protested kindly. "You have always--"

--"Been a brute, " insisted Livingstone, "a blind, cursed, selfish, thoughtless--"

"You are not well, Mr. Livingstone, " urged Clark, looking greatlydisturbed. "Your servant, James, said you were not well this eveningwhen I called. I wanted to go in to see you, but he would not permit me. He said that you had given positive orders that you would not see--"

"I was not well, " assented Livingstone. "I was suffering from blindness. But I am better, Clark, better. I can see now--a little. "

He controlled himself and spoke quietly. "I want you to lend me yourlittle girl for--" He broke off suddenly. "How many children have you, Clark?" he asked, gently. 

"Eight, " said the old clerk. "But I haven't one I could spare, Mr. Livingstone. "

"Only for a little while, Clark?" urged the other; "only for a littlewhile. --Wait, and let me tell you what I want with her and why I wanther, and you will--For a little while?" he pleaded. 

He started and told his story and Clark sat and listened, at first witha set face, then with a wondering face, and then with a face deeplymoved, as Livingstone, under his warming sympathy, opened his heart tohim as a dying man might to his last confessor. 

"--And now will you lend her to me, Clark, for just a little whileto-night and to-morrow?" he pleaded in conclusion. 

Clark rose to his feet. "I will see what I can do with her, Mr. Livingstone, " he said, gravely. "She is not very friendly to you, I amsorry to say--I don't know why. "

Livingstone thought he knew. 

"Of course, you would not want me to compel her to go with you?"

"Of course not, " said Livingstone. 

CHAPTER XI

The father went out by the door that opened into the passage, and thenext moment Livingstone could hear him in deep conference in theadjoining room; at first with his wife, and then with the little girlherself. 

The door did not fit very closely and the partition was thin, so thatLivingstone could not help hearing what was said, and even when he couldshut out the words he could not help knowing from the tones what wasgoing on. 

The mother was readily won over, but when the little girl was consultedshe flatly refused. Her father undertook to coax her. 

To Livingstone's surprise the argument he used was not that Livingstonewas rich, but that he was so poor and lonely; not well off and happylike him, with a house full of little children to love him and make himhappy and give him a merry Christmas. 

The point of view was new to Livingstone--at least, it was recent; buthe recognized its force and listened hopefully. The child's reply dashedhis hopes. 

"But, papa, I hate him so--I just _hate_ him!" she declared, earnestly. "I'm _glad_ he hasn't any little children to love him. When he wouldn'tlet you come home to us this evening, I just prayed so hard to God notto let him have any home and not to let him have any Christmas--not_ever!_"

The eager little voice had risen in the child's earnestness and itpierced through the door and struck Livingstone like an arrow. Therecame back to him that sentence, "_Whoso offendeth one of these littleones, it were better for him that a millstone were hanged about hisneck_--. "

Livingstone fairly shivered, but he had able defenders. 

"Oh, Kitty!" exclaimed both her father and mother, aghast at the child'sbitterness. 

They next tried the argument that Livingstone had been so kind to thefather. He had "given him last year fifty dollars besides his salary. "

Livingstone was not surprised that this argument did not prove asavailing with the child as the parents appeared to expect. --Fiftydollars! He hated himself for it. He felt that he would give fiftythousand to drop that millstone from his neck. 

They next tried the argument that Livingstone wanted to have aChristmas-tree for poor children and needed her help. He wanted her togo with him to a toy-shop. He did not know what to get and wished her totell him. He had his sleigh to take her. 

This seemed to strike one of the other members of the family, forsuddenly a boy's eager voice burst in:

"I'll go with him. I'll go with him in a sleigh. I'll go to thetoy-shop. Maybe, he'll give me a sled. Papa, mamma, please let me go. "

This offer, however, did not appear to meet all the requisites of theoccasion and Master Tom was speedily suppressed by his parents. Perhaps, however, his offer had some effect on Kitty, for she finally assentedand said she would go, and Livingstone could hear the parents gettingher ready. He felt like a reprieved prisoner. 

After a few moments Mr. Clark brought the little girl in, cloaked andhooded and ready to go. 

When Livingstone faced the two blue eyes that were fastened on him incalm, and, by no means, wholly approving inspection, he felt like adeep-dyed culprit. Had he known of this ordeal in advance he could nothave faced it, but as it was he must now carry it through. 

What he did was, perhaps, the best that any one could have done. Afterthe cool, little handshake she vouchsafed him, Livingstone, finding thathe could not stand the scrutiny of those quiet, unblenching eyes, threwhimself on the child's mercy. 

"Kitty, " he said earnestly, "I did you this evening a great wrong, andyour father a great wrong, and I have come here to ask you to forgiveme. --I have been working so hard that I did not know it was Christmas, and I interfered with your father's Christmas--and with your Christmas;for I had no little girls to tell me how near Christmas was. And now Iwant to get up a Christmas for some poor children, and I don't know howto do it, so I have come to ask you to help me. I want you to play SantaClaus for me, and we will find the toys, and then we will find thechildren. I have a great big sleigh, and we will go off to a toy-shop, and presently I will bring you back home again. "

He had made his speech much longer than he had intended, because he sawthat the child's mind was working; the cumulative weight of thesleigh-ride, the opportunity to play a part and to act as Santa Clausfor other children, was telling on her. 

When he ended, Kitty reflected a moment and then said quietly, "Allright. "

Her tone was not very enthusiastic, but it was assent and Livingstonefelt as though he had just been redeemed. 

The next moment the child turned to the door. 

Livingstone rose and followed her. He was amused at his feeling ofhelplessness and dependence. She was suddenly the leader and without herhe felt lost. 

She stepped into the sleigh and he followed her. 

"Where shall we go first?" she asked. 

This was a poser for Livingstone. All the shops of which he knewanything were closed long ago. 

"Why, I think I will let you select the place, " he began, simply seekingfor time. 

"What do you want to get?" she asked calmly, gazing up at him. 

Livingstone had never thought for a second that there would be anydifficulty about this. He was hopelessly in the dark. Stocks, "common"or "preferred, " bonds and debentures, floated through his mind. Evenhorses or pictures he would have had a clear opinion on, but in thisfield he was lost. He had never known, or cared to know, what childrenliked. 

Suddenly a whole new realm seemed to open before him, but it wasshrouded in darkness. And that little figure at his side with large, sober, searching eyes fixed calmly on him was quietly demanding hisknowledge and waiting for his answer. He had passed hundreds of windowscrowded with Christmas presents that very evening and had never lookedat one. He had passed as between blank walls. What would he not havegiven now for but the least memory of one glance!

But the eyes were waiting and he must answer. 

"Why--ah--you know, --ah--_toys!_"

It was an inspiration and Livingstone shook himself with self-approval. 

"Yes--ah--TOYS! you know?" he repeated. 

He glowed with satisfaction over his escape. 

The announcement, however, did not appear to astonish his companion asmuch as he felt it should have done. She did not even take her eyes fromhis face. 

"How many children are there?"

"Why--twenty. " Livingston caught at a number, as a sinking man catchesat a twig. 

As she accepted this, Livingstone was conscious of elation. He felt asthough he were playing a game and had escaped the ignominy of a wronganswer: he had caught a bough and it held him. 

"How old are they?"

Livingstone gasped. The little ogress! Was she just trifling with him?Could it be possible that she saw through him? As he looked down at herthe eyes fastened on him were as calm as a dove's eyes. 

"Why--ah--. How many brothers and sisters have you?" he asked. 

He wished to create a diversion and gain time. She answered promptly. 

"Seven: four sisters and three brothers. John, he's my oldest brother;Tom, he's next--he's eight. Billy is the baby. "

This contribution of family history was a relief, and Livingstone wasjust trying to think of something else to say, when she demanded again, "What are the ages of your children?"

"I have no children, " said Livingstone, thinking how clever he was to beso ready with an answer. 

"I know. --But I mean the children you want the toys for?"

Livingstone felt for his handkerchief. The perspiration was beginning tocome on his brow. 

"Why, --ah--the same ages as your brothers and sisters--about, " he saiddesperately, feeling that he was at the end of his resources and wouldbe discovered by the next question. 

"We will go to Brown's, " said the child quietly, and, dropping her eyes, she settled herself back in the furs as though the problem weredefinitely solved. 

CHAPTER XII

Livingstone glanced at the little figure beside him, hoping she wouldindicate where "Brown's" was, but she did not. Every one must know"Brown's. "

The only "Brown" Livingstone knew was the great banker, and a grim smileflickered on his cheek at the thought of the toys in which that Browndealt. He shifted the responsibility to the driver. 

"Driver, go to Brown's. You know where it is?"

"Well, no, sir, I don't believe I do. Which Brown do you mean, sir?"

"Why--ah--the toy-man's, of course. "

The driver stopped his horses and reflected. He shook his head slowly. Livingstone, however, was now equal to the emergency. Besides, there wasnothing else to do. He turned to his companion. 

"Where is it?" he began boldly, but as he saw the look of surprise inthe little girl's face he added, "I mean--exactly?"

"Why, right across from the grocer's with the parrot and the littlewhite woolly dog. "

She spoke with astonishment that any one should not know so important apersonage. And Livingstone, too, was suddenly conscious of theimportance of this information. Clearly he had neglected certainvaluable branches of knowledge. 

Happily, the driver came to his rescue. 

"Where is that, Miss?" he asked. 

"You go to the right and keep going to the right all the way, " she saiddefinitely. 

Livingstone was in despair; but the driver appeared to understand now. 

"You tell me when I go wrong, " he said, and drove on. 

He must have children at home, thought Livingstone to himself as thesleigh after a number of turns drew up in front of one of the verywindows Livingstone had passed that evening on the back street. He feltas though he would like to reward the driver. It was the first timeLivingstone had thought of a driver in many years. 

Just as they drove up the door of the shop was being closed, and thelittle girl gave an exclamation of disappointment. 

"Oh, we are too late!" she cried. 

Livingstone felt his heart jump into his throat. He sprang to the doorand rapped. There was no answer. The light was evidently being turnedoff inside. Livingstone rapped again more impatiently. Another light wasturned down. Livingstone was desperate. His loud knocking produced noimpression, and he could have bought out the whole square!

Suddenly a little figure pushed against him as Kitty slipped before him, and putting her mouth to the crack of the door, called, "Oh! Mr. Brown, please let me in. It's _me_, Kitty Clark, Mr. Clark's little girl. "

Instantly the light within was turned up. A step came towards the door, the bolts were drawn back and half the door was opened. 

Livingstone was prepared to see the shopkeeper confounded when he shoulddiscover who his caller was. On the contrary, the man was in nowiseembarrassed by his appearance. Indeed, he paid no attention whatever toLivingstone. It was to Kitty that he addressed himself, ignoringLivingstone's presence utterly. 

"Why, Kitty, what are you doing out at this time of night? Aren't youafraid Santa Claus will come while you are away, and not bring youanything? You know what they say he does if he don't find everybodyasleep in bed?"

Kitty nodded, and leaning forward on her toes, dropped her voice to amysterious whisper:

"I know who Santa Claus is. " The whisper ended with a little chuckle ofdelight at her astuteness. "I found it out last Christmas. "

"Kitty, you didn't! You must have been mistaken?" said the shopkeeperwith a grin on his kindly countenance. "Who is he?"

"Mr. --Brown, and Mr. And Mrs. --Clark, " said Kitty slowly andimpressively, as though she were adding up figures and the result wouldspeak for itself. She took in the shop with a wave of her little handand a sweep of her eyes. 

"I'm playing Santa Claus myself, to-night, " she said, tossing her hoodedhead, her eyes kindling at the thought. The next look around was one ofbusiness. 

"This is Mr. Livingstone, papa's employer. " She indicated thatgentleman. 

Mr. Brown held out his plump and not wholly immaculate hand. 

"How d'ye do, sir? I think I've heard of you?"

He turned back to Kitty. 

"Who for?" he asked. 

"For him, " Kitty nodded. "He's got a whole lot of little children--nothis own children--other people's children--that he's going to giveChristmas presents to, and I've come to help him. What have you gotleft, Mr. Santa Claus?"

She stood on tiptoe and peered over the shelves. 

"Well, not a great deal, Miss Wide-awake, " said the shopkeeper droppinginto her manner and mood. "You see there's lots of children around thisyear as don't keep wide-awake all night, and Santa Claus has had to lookafter 'em quite considerable. I can't tell you how many sleighs full ofthings he's taken away from this here very shop. He didn't leave nothingbut them things you see and the very expensive things in the cases. Hesaid they were too high-priced for him. "

He actually gave Livingstone a wink, and Livingstone actually feltflattered by it. 

The reply recalled Kitty to her business. She turned to Mr. Livingstone. 

"How much money have you got to spend?" she asked. 

"Umhm--I don't know, " said Livingstone. 

"As much as a dollar?"

"Yes. "

"More?"

"Yes. "

"How much more?"

"As much as you want. Suppose you pick out the things you like and thenwe can see about the price, " he suggested. 

"Some things cost a heap. "

She was looking at a doll on whose skirt was pinned a little scrap ofcard-board marked, "_25c. _"

"Yes, they do, " assented Livingstone. "But they are worth it, " hethought. "I tell you what!--Suppose you look around and see just whatyou like, and I'll go off here and talk with Mr. Brown so as not todisturb you. "

He was learning and the lesson was already bringing him pleasure. 

He took the shopkeeper aside and had a little talk with him, learningfrom him all he could of Clark's family and circumstances. It was anamazement to him. He had never known what a burden Clark had carried. The shopkeeper spoke of him with great affection and with great respect. 

"He is the best man in the world, " he said. 

He treated Livingstone with familiarity, but he spoke of Clark withrespect. 

"He ought to be on the Avenue, " he asserted; "and if everybody had theirrights some would be where Mr. Clark is and Mr. Clark would be in theirplace. "

Livingstone was not prepared just then to gainsay this. 

He explained to Mr. Brown his wishes. He wanted to get many things, butdid not know how to keep the child from suspecting his plan. Theshopkeeper gave him a suggestion. Close association and sympathy withchildren had given Brown knowledge. 

CHAPTER XIII

They returned to Kitty. She was busy figuring on a little piece ofpaper, moistening her little stub of a pencil, every other second, withher tongue. Her little red mouth showed streaks of black. She wasevidently in some trouble. 

Livingstone drew near. 

"How are you coming on?" he asked. 

She looked up with a face full of perplexity. 

"Oh! I've spent nearly the whole dollar and I haven't but nine presentsyet. We must get something cheaper. --But they were so pretty!" shelamented, her eyes glancing longingly towards the articles she hadselected. 

"Let's see. Maybe, you have made a mistake, " said Livingstone. He tookthe bit of paper and she handed him the pencil. 

"I'm not very good at making figures, " she observed. 

"I'm not either, " said Livingstone, glancing at the paper. "I'll tellyou what let's do, " he said. "Let's get Mr. Brown to open all his casesand boxes, and let's look at everything and just see what we wouldselect if we could have our choice?"

The little girl's eyes opened wide. 

"You mean, let's make pretense that we are real sure-enough Santa Clausand just pick out everything we want to give everybody, and pretend thatwe could get it and give it to them?"

Livingstone nodded. 

"Yes. "

That was just what he ought to have meant, he knew. 

The inquiry in Kitty's big eyes became light. She sprang to her feet andwith a little squeak of delight marched to the middle of the shop andtaking her stand began to sweep the shelves with her dancing eyes. 

Livingstone gave a nod to the shopkeeper and he drew back the curtainsthat protected the cases where the finer and more expensive goods werekept and began to open the boxes. 

Kitty approached on tiptoe and watched him with breathless silence asthough she were in a dream which a word might break. 

Then when she had seen everything she turned back to Livingstone. 

"Well!" she said slowly. 

"Well, what do you say?" He too was beginning to feel a spell. 

"Well, if I were a real, sure-'nough Santa Claus, I'd justget--everything in those cases. " The spread of her little arms took itall in. 

"And what would you do with it?" asked Livingstone in the same low tone, fearful of breaking the reverie in which she stood wrapped. 

He had never before in all his life been taken into partnership by alittle girl, and deep down beneath his breast-pocket was a kindling glowwhich was warming him through and through. 

"I'd carry that doll--to Jean, and that--to Sue, and that--to Mollie, and that--to Dee, and those skates to Johnny, and--that sled to Tom, and--that woolly lamb to little Billy, 'cause he loves squshythings. --And then--I'd take all the rest in my sleigh and I'd go to thehospital where the poor little children haven't got any good papas andmammas like me to give them anything, and where Santa Claus can't evergo, and I'd put something by the side of every bed--of every one, and, maybe, they'd think at first it was only a dream; but when they waked upwide they'd find Santa Claus had been there, sure enough!"

In her energy she was gesticulating with earnest hands that seemed totake each present and bear it to its destination, and she concludedwith a little nod to Livingstone that seemed to recognize him as insympathy with her, and to say, "Wouldn't we if we only could?"

It seemed to Livingstone as though a casing of ice in which he had beenenclosed had suddenly broken and he were bathed in warmth. 

The millstone round his neck had suddenly dropped and he shot upwardinto the light. 

The child was leading him into a new and vernal world. He wanted to takeher in his arms and press her to his heart. The difference between theglance she now gave him and that she had shot at him at the door of hisoffice that evening came to him and decided him. It was worth it all. 

"Yes. Is there anything else you wish?" he asked, hoping that theremight be, for she had not mentioned herself. 

"Yes, but it's not anything Santa Claus can give, " she said calmly; "Ihave asked God for it. "

"What?" asked Livingstone. 

"Something to make mamma well: to help papa pay for the house. He saysit's that 'at keeps her ill, and she says if she were well he could payfor it: and I just pray to God for it every day. "

Livingstone caught his breath quickly as if from a sudden pain. The longyears of Clark's faithful service flashed before him. He shivered at thethought of his own meanness. He was afraid those great eyes might seeinto his heart. He almost shrivelled at the thought. 

"Well, let's take a sleigh-ride and see if any other shops are open. Then we can return. "

He spoke a few words aside to Mr. Brown. The shopkeeper's eyes openedwide. 

"But you say you haven't money enough with you, and I don't know you?"

Livingstone smiled. 

"Why, man, I am worth--" He stopped short as a faint trace of sevenfigures appeared vaguely before his eyes. "I am worth enough to buy allthis square and not feel it, " he said, quickly correcting himself. 

"That may be all so, but I don't know you, " persisted the shopkeeper. "Do you know anybody in this part of the town?"

"Well, I know Mr. Clark. He would vouch for me, but--. "

The shopkeeper turned to the child. 

"Kitty, you know this gentleman, you say?"

"Yes. Oh, he's all right, " said Kitty decisively. "He's my papa'semployer and he gave him _fifty_ dollars last Christmas, 'cause my papatold me so. "

This munificent gift did not appear to impress Mr. Brown very much, anymore than it did Livingstone, who felt himself flush. 

"Business is business, you know?" said the shopkeeper, --an aphorism onwhich Livingstone had often acted, but had never had cited against him. 

The shopkeeper was evidently considering. 

Livingstone was half angry and half embarrassed. He felt as he had notdone in twenty years. The shopkeeper was weighing him in his scales ashe might have done a pound of merchandise, and Livingstone could nottell what he would decide. There was Kitty, however, her eyes stillfilled with light. He could not disappoint her. She, too, felt that hewas being weighed and suddenly came to his rescue. 

"He's an awful kind man, " she said earnestly. "He hasn't got any littlechildren of his own, and he's going to give things to little poorchildren. He always does that, I guess, " she added. 

"Well, no, I don't, " said Livingstone, looking at the shopkeeperfrankly; "but I wish I had, and I'll pay you. "

"All right. She knows you and that will do, " said Mr. Brown. 

Kitty, with the light of an explorer in her eyes, was making newdiscoveries on the shelves, and the two men walked to the back of theshop where the shopkeeper wrote a list of names. Then Livingstone andKitty got into the sleigh and drove for a half-hour or so. 

On their return Mr. Brown was ready. 

His shop looked as though it had been struck by a whirlwind. The floorand counters were covered with boxes and bundles, and he and Livingstonepacked the big sleigh as full as it would hold, leaving only one seatdeep in the furs amid the heaped up parcels. Then suddenly fromsomewhere Mr. Brown produced a great, shaggy cape with a hood, andLivingstone threw it around Kitty and getting in lifted her into thelittle nest between the furs. 

Kitty's eyes were dancing and her breath was coming quickly withexcitement. 

It was a supreme moment. 

"Where are we going, Mr. Livingstone?" she whispered. She was afraid tospeak aloud lest she might break the spell and awake. 

"Just where you like. "

"To the Children's Hospital, " she panted. 

"To the Children's Hospital, driver, " repeated Livingstone. 

Kitty gave another gasp. 

"We'll play you're Santa Claus, " she said, in a voice of low delight. 

"No. Play you are Santa Claus's partner, " said Livingstone. 

"And you?"

"You are not to say anything about me. "

CHAPTER XIV

Livingstone had not had such a drive in years. The little form snuggledagainst him closer and closer and the warm half sentences of childishprattle, as the little girl's imagination wove its fancies, came to himfrom amid the furs and made him feel as though he had left the earth andwere driving in a new world. It was like a dream. Had youth come back?Was it possible?

The sleigh stopped in front of a great long building. 

"You have to ring at the side door at night, " said the driver. Heappeared to know a good deal about the hospital. 

Livingstone sprang out and rang the bell and then stepped back. 

"When they open the door, you are to do all the talking, " he said toKitty as he lifted her down. 

"Who shall I say rang?" she asked. 

"Santa Claus's partner. "

"But you--?"

"No. You are not to mention my name. Remember!"

Before the child could reply the door opened a little way and a porterlooked out. 

"Who's there?" he called to the sleigh, rather overlooking the littlefigure in the snow. 

"Santa Claus's partner, " said Kitty. 

"What do you want?" He peered out at the sleigh. He was evidently sleepyand a little puzzled. "We don't take in anything at this hour exceptpatients. " He looked as if he were about to shut the door when a woman'svoice was heard within speaking to him and the next moment the door wasopened wide and he gave way as a matronly figure came forward and stoodin the archway. 

"Who is it?" she asked in a very pleasant voice, looking down at thelittle figure in the snow before her. 

"Santa Claus's partner, " said Kitty, gazing up at her. 

"What do you want, dear?" The voice was even pleasanter. 

"To leave some presents for the children. "

"What children?"

"All the good children--all the sick children, I mean--all thechildren, " said Kitty. 

The matron turned and spoke to the porter, showing to Livingstone, asshe did so, a glimpse of a finely cut profile and a comely figuresilhouetted against the light within. The bolts were drawn from the gateof the driveway and the doors rolled back. 

"Come in, " said the matron, and the little figure enveloped in theshaggy cape and hood walked in under the big arch followed by thesleigh, whilst Livingstone withdrew a short distance into the shadow. 

It was some time before the doors opened again and Kitty reappeared, but Livingstone did not mind it. It was cold too, but neither did hemind that. He was warm. As he walked up and down in the empty streetbefore the long building his heart was warmed with a glow which had notbeen there for many and many a long year. He was not alone. Once morethe memory of other Christmases passed through his mind in longprocessional, but now not stamped with irretrievable opportunity, tomock him with vain regret for lost happiness; only tinged with a sadnessfor lost friends who came trooping about him; yet lightened by hisresolve to begin from now on and strive as best he might to retrieve hiswasted life, and whilst he bore his punishment do what he could to makeatonement for his past. 

Just then across the town the clocks began to sound the midnight hour, and as they ceased, from somewhere far-away church bells mellowed bythe distance began to chime the old Christmas hymn:--

 _"While shepherds watched their flocks by night, All seated on the ground, The angel of the Lord came down, And glory shone around. "_

Livingstone stood still to listen, in a half-dream. 

Suddenly before him in the snow stood a little figure muffled in ashaggy cape with hood half thrown back. The childish face was upliftedin the moonlight. With lips half parted she too was listening, and for amoment Livingstone could hardly take in that she was real. She seemed--!

Could she be--?

"_The angel of the Lord came down, _"--chimed the mellow bells. 

The chiming died out. 

"Christ is born, " said the child. "You heard the bells?"

"Yes, " said Livingstone humbly. 

"It's all done, " she said; "and I prayed so hard that not one of themstirred, and now when they wake they'll think it was real Santa Claus. They say he always comes at twelve and I counted the clocks. --I wonderif he went home?" She was speaking now to herself; but Livingstoneanswered. 

"I'm sure of it, " he said. 

"_The angel of the Lord came down, "_ still chimed in his ears. 

Suddenly a little warm hand was slipped into his confidingly. 

"I think we'd better go home now. " The voice was full of deep content. 

Livingstone's hand closed on hers and as he said "Yes, " he was consciousof a pang at the thought of giving her up. 

He lifted her to put her in the sleigh. As he did so the little armswere put about his neck and warm little lips kissed him. Livingstonepressed her to his breast convulsively and climbed into the sleighwithout putting her down. 

Neither spoke and when the sleigh stopped in front of Mr. Clark's doorthe child was still in Livingstone's arms, her head resting on hisshoulder, the golden curls falling over his sleeve. Even when hetransferred her to her father's arms she did not wake. She only sighedwith sweet content and as Livingstone bent over and kissed her softly, muttered a few words about "Santa Claus's partner. "

A half-hour later, Livingstone, after another interview with Mr. Brownwho was awaiting him patiently, drove back again to Mr. Clark's doorwith another sleighful of packages which were all duly transferred tothe small room where stood the little Christmas-tree. 

The handshake Livingstone gave John Clark as he came down the steps ofthe little house was the warmest he had given any man in twenty years. It was so warm that it seemed to send the blood tingling throughLivingstone's heart and warm it anew. 

CHAPTER XV

Livingstone drove home through silent streets, but they were not silentfor him. In his ears a chime was still ringing and it bore him faracross the snow-filled streets and the snow-filled years to a land ofwarmth and light. The glow was still about his heart and the tinglewhich the pressure of Kitty Clark's arms about his neck, and JohnClark's clasp of his hand had started still kept it warm. 

At his door Livingstone dismissed his driver and as he cheerily wishedhim a merry Christmas the man's cheery reply showed that Livingstone hadalready found the secret of good cheer. 

"The same to you, your honor; the same to you, sir, " said the driverheartily, as he buttoned up his pocket with a pat of satisfaction. "We've had a good time to-night, sir, haven't we? And I wish you manymore like it, sir. And when Christmas comes along next time I hopeyou'll remember me, for I'll remember you; I've had a little child inthat 'ere same horspital. God took her to Himself twelve years ago. They're good to 'em there, rich and poor all alike;--and 't isn't everynight I can drive 'Santa Claus's partner. '"

Livingstone stood and watched the sleigh till it drove out of sight. Even after it had disappeared around a corner, he still listened to thebells. It seemed to him he had a friend in it. 

Livingstone let himself in noiselessly at his door, but the softnesswith which he turned the key this time was to keep from disturbing hisservants, not to keep them from seeing him. 

He stopped stock still on the threshold. The whole house seemedtransformed. The hall was a bower of holly and mistletoe, and thelibrary, as Livingstone entered it, with its bright fire roaring in thehearth and its festoons and wreaths, seemed once more a charming home: abower where cheer might yet make its abode. 

As quietly, however, as Livingstone had entered, his butler had heardhim. 

As Livingstone turned to take in all the beauty of the room, James wasstanding before him. His face showed some concern, and his voice, as hespoke, had a little tremor in it. 

"When we found you had gone out, sir, we were afraid you might be sick, and the cook has got something hot for you?"

Livingstone glanced about to find a phrase with which to thank him forthe trouble they had taken; but the butler spared him the pains. 

"We thought we would try to make the house look a little cheery, sir. Hope you don't mind, sir?"

"Mind!" said Livingstone, "I am delighted; and I thank you very much. Mind? I should think not!"

The tone of his voice and the light in his eye showed that there was achange in him and it acted like a tonic on the butler. The light cameinto his eyes too. He drew a breath of deep relief as though a mountainof care had rolled off him, and he came a step nearer his master, whohad flung himself into a chair and picked up a cigar. 

The next minute Livingstone plunged into the subject on his mind. It wasa plan which made the butler's eyes first open wide and then sparklewith pleasure. 

The difficulty with Livingstone, however, was that the next day was aholiday and he did not know whether what he wanted could be got. 

The butler came to his rescue. It was no difficulty to James. Such anemergency only quickened his powers. He knew places where whatever waswanted could be got, holiday or no holiday, and, "If Mr. Livingstonewould only allow him--?"

"Allow you!" said Livingstone, "I give you _carte blanche_, only haveeverything ready by five o'clock. --Ask the cook to send up whatever shehas; I'm hungry, and we'll talk it over whilst I'm taking supper. "

"Yes, sir; yes, sir; yes, sir;" and James withdrew with a step as lightas air. 

"Extraordinary servant!" thought Livingstone. "Wonder I never took it inbefore!"

Ten minutes later Livingstone was seated at the table with an appetitelike a schoolboy's. 

It was the happiest meal Livingstone had eaten in many a long day; for, all alone as he was, he was not alone. Thought-of-others sat at theboard and a cheery companion it is. 

"Tell the laundress to be sure and bring her children around to-morrow, and be sure you make them have a good time, " he said to James, as herose from the table. James bowed. 

"Yes, sir. "

"And ascertain where policeman, No. 268, is to be found to-morrow. Iwant to send a contribution to make a good slide for some boys on hisbeat. "

James bowed again, his eyes somewhat wider than before. 

As Livingstone mounted the stair, though he was sensible of fatigue itwas the fatigue of the body, so delicious to those who have known thatof the mind. And he felt pity as well as loathing for the poor, worncreature who had climbed the same stair a few hours before. 

As he entered his room the warmth and home feeling had come back therealso. The portraits of his father and mother first caught his eye. Someone had put a wreath around each and they seemed to beam on him with apleased and tender smile. They opened afresh the flood-gates of memoryfor him, but the memories were sweet and tender. 

He glanced at a mirror almost with trembling. The last time he hadlooked at himself he had seen only that old, haggard face with theghostly figures branded across the brow. Thank God! they were gone now, and he could even see in his face some faint resemblance to theportraits on the wall. 

He went to bed and slept as he had not slept for months, perhaps foryears--not dreamlessly, but the dreams were pleasant. --Now and thenlines of vague figures appeared to him, but a little girl with a smilingface came and played bo-peep with him over them, and presently sprang upand threw her arms about his neck and made him take her in a sleigh to awonderful shop where they could get marvellous presents; among themYouth, and Friendship, and Happiness. The door was just being shut asthey arrived, but when he called his father's name it was openedwide--and his father and mother greeted him--and led him smiling intoplaces where he had played as a child. --And Catherine Trelane in ashaggy coat and hood pulled the presents from a forest ofChristmas-trees and gave them to Santa Claus's partner to give toothers. And suddenly his father, with his old tender smile, picked thelittle girl up in his arms and she changed into a wonderful child thatshone so that it dazzled Livingstone and--he waked to find the brightsun shining in through the window and falling on his face. 

He sprang from bed with a cry almost of joy so bright was the day; andas he looked out of the window on the sparkling snow outside it seemed anew world. 

CHAPTER XVI

All the morning Livingstone "rushed" as he had never "rushed" in thewildest excitement of "the street. " He had to find a banker and a lawyerand a policeman. But he found them all. He had to get presents toSipkins and Hartly and the other clerks; but he managed to do it. 

His servants, too, had caught the contagion, and more than once bigwagons driven by smiling, cheery-faced men drove up to the door andunloaded their contents. And when the evening fell and a great sleighwith six seats and four horses, and every seat packed full, drove up andemptied its shouting occupants out at Livingstone's door everything wasready. 

It was Livingstone himself who met the guests at the door, and thedriver, in his shaggy coat, must have been an old friend from thesmiling way in which he nodded and waved his fur-gloved hands to him, as he helped Mrs. Clark out tenderly and took Kitty into his arms. 

When Kitty was informed that this was Santa Claus's Partner's party, andthat she was to be the hostess, she was at first a little shy, partly, perhaps, on account of the strangeness of being in such a big, finehouse, and partly on account of the solemn presence of James, until thelatter had relieved her in ways of which that austere person seemed tohave the secret where children were concerned. Finally she was inducedto take the children over the house, and the laughter which soon camefloating back from distant rooms showed that the ice was broken. 

Only two rooms, the library and the dining-room, were closed, and theywere not closed very long. 

Just as it grew dark Kitty was told to marshal her eager forces andJames with sparkling eyes rolled back the folding doors. 

The children had never seen anything before in all their lives likethat which greeted their eyes. The library was a bower of evergreen andradiance. In the centre was a great tree of crystal and stars whichreflected the light of a myriad twinkling candles. It had undoubtedlycome from fairy-land, if the place was not fairy-land itself, on theborder of which they stood amazed. 

Kitty was asked by Mr. Livingstone to lead the other children in, and asshe approached the tree she found facing her a large envelope addressedto, _Santa Claus's Partner, Miss Kitty Clark. _

This she was told to open and in it was a letter from Santa Claushimself. 

It stated that the night before, as the writer was engaged in lookingafter presents for some poor children, he saw a little girl in a shopengaged in the same work, and when he reached a certain hospital hefound that she had been there, too, before him, and now as he had to goto another part of the world to keep ahead of the sun, he hoped that shewould still act for him and look after his business here. The letter wassigned, _Your partner, Santa Claus. _

The postscript suggested that a few of the articles he had left on thetree for her were marked with names, but that others were unmarked, sothat her friends might choose what they preferred, and he had left hispack at the foot of the tree as a grab-bag. 

This letter broke the spell and next moment every one was shouting androllicking as though they lived there. 

In all the throng there was no one so delighted as Mr. Clark. Livingstone had had no idea how clever he was. He was the soul of theentertainment. It was he who discovered first the packages for eachlittle one; he who, without appearing to do so, guided them in theirmarch around the tree, so that all might find just the presents thatsuited them. He seemed to Livingstone's quickened eye to divine justwhat each child liked and wished. He appeared to know all thatLivingstone desired to know. 

At length, he alone of all the guests had received no present. Theothers had their little arms packed so full that Livingstone had to stepforward to the tree to help a small tot bear away his toppling load. 

The next moment Kitty discovered a large envelope lying at the foot ofthe tree. It was addressed, _John Clark, Esq. , Father of Santa Claus's Partner. _

It was strange that Kitty should have overlooked it before. 

With a spring she seized it and handed it to her father with a littleshout of joy, for she had not been able to keep from showingdisappointment that he had received nothing. 

Clark smiled at her pleasure, for he knew that the kisses which she hadgiven him from time to time had been to make amends to him, and not, asothers thought, from joy over her own presents. 

Clark knew well the hand-writing, and even as he opened the envelope heglanced around to catch Livingstone's eye and thank him. Livingstone, however, had suddenly disappeared; so Clark read the letter. 

It was very brief. It said that Livingstone had never known until thenight before how much he owed him; that he was not sure even now that heknew the full extent of his indebtedness, but at least he had come torecognize that he owed much of his business success to Mr. Clark'swisdom and fidelity; and he asked as a personal favor to him that Clarkwould accept the enclosed as a token of his gratitude, and wouldconsider favorably his proposal. 

Opening an enclosed envelope, Clark found two papers. One was a fullrelease of the mortgage on Clark's house (Livingstone had spent themorning in securing it), the other was a Memorandum of "Articles ofPartnership" between Berryman Livingstone and John Clark, beginning fromthat very day, --indeed, from the day before, --all ready, signed byLivingstone and wanting only Mr. Clark's signature to make it complete. 

Mr. Clark, with his face quite white and looking almost awed, turned andwalked into the next room where he found Livingstone standing alone. Theold clerk was still holding the papers clutched in his hand and waswalking as if in a dream. 

"Mr. Livingstone, " he began, "I can never--I am overwhelmed!--Yourletter--your gifts--" But Livingstone interrupted him. His face was notwhite but red. 

"Nonsense!" he said, as he turned and put his hand on the other'sshoulder. "Clark, I am not giving you anything. I am paying. --I mean, Iowe you everything, and what I don't owe you, I owe Kitty. Last nightyou lent me--" He stopped, caught himself, and began again. 

"It was more than even you knew, Clark, " he said, looking the otherkindly in the eyes, "and I'll owe you a debt of gratitude all my life. All I ask is, that you will forget the past and help me in the futureand sometimes lend me Kitty. I never knew until now how good it was tohave a partner. "

Just then he became conscious that someone else was near him. Kitty, with wide-open, happy eyes, was standing beside them looking upinquiringly in their faces. The child seemed to know that somethingimportant had happened, for she put up her arms, and pulling her fatherdown to her kissed him, and then turning quickly she caught Livingstoneand, drawing him down, kissed him too. 

"I love you, " she said, in a whisper. 

Livingstone caught her in his arms. 

"Let's go and have a game of blind-man's buff. I am beginning to feelyoung again, " he said, and linking his arm in Clark's, he dragged himback to the others, where, in a few minutes they were all of one age, and a very riot of fun seemed to have broken loose. 

Matters had just reached this delightful point, and Livingstone was downon his hands and knees trying with futile dexterity to avoid the clutchof a pair of little arms that apparently were pursuing him withinfallible instinct into an inextricable trap, when he became consciousof a presence he had not observed before. Some one not there before wasstanding in the doorway. 

Livingstone sprang to his feet and faced Mrs. Wright. 

He felt very red and foolish as he caught her eyes and found themsmiling at him. The idea of being discovered in so ridiculous asituation and posture by the most fashionable and elegant woman of hisacquaintance! But Mrs. Wright waved to him to go on with his game andthe next moment the little arms had clutched him, and, tearing off herbandage, Kitty, with dancing eyes, declared him "caught. "

"Well, this is my final triumph over Will, " exclaimed Mrs. Wright, advancing into the room, as Livingstone, drawing the little girl alongwith him, approached her. And she began to tell Livingstone how they hadparticularly wanted him to dine with them that day as an old friend ofhis had promised to come to them, but they had supposed, of course, that he had been overrun with invitations for the day and, as they hadnot seen him of late, thought that he had probably gone out of town, until her husband saw him at the club the night before where he had goneto find some poor lone bachelor who might have no other invitation. 

"You know Will has always been very fond of you, " she said; "and he saysyou have been working too hard of late and have not been looking well. When I didn't get my usual contributions from you this Christmas Ididn't know what to make of it, but I think that on my round thismorning I have found out the reason?"

Livingstone knew the reason, but he did not tell her. The knowing smilethat lit her face, however, mystified him and he flushed a little underher searching eyes. 

"Will was sure he saw you in the club last night, " she persisted, "andhe tried to catch you, but you ran off; and now I have come for you andwill take no refusal. "

Livingstone expressed his regret that he could not come. A wave of hishand towards the curly heads and beaming faces clustered before them andtowards the long table gleaming in the dining-room beyond explained hisreason. 

"I am having a Christmas dinner myself, " he said. 

"Then you will come in after they go?" insisted Mrs. Wright, and asLivingstone knew they were going early he assented. 

"Who are your friends?" she asked. "What a pleasant-looking man, andwhat lovely children! That little girl, --I thought it was Cupid when shehad the bandage on her eyes and now I am sure of it. "

"Let me present them to you, " said Livingstone, and he presented Mr. Clark as his partner and Kitty as Santa Claus's partner. 

"I did not know you had a partner?" she asked. 

"It is my Christmas gift from Santa Claus, " he said. "One of them; Ihave many. "

CHAPTER XVII

When Livingstone walked into Mrs. Wright's drawing-room that evening hehad never had such a greeting, and he had never been in such spirits. His own Christmas dinner had been the success of his life. He couldstill see those happy faces about his board, and hear those joyousvoices echoing through his house. 

The day seemed to have been one long dream of delight. From the momentwhen he had turned to go after the little child to ask her to show himthe way to help others, he had walked in a new land; lived in a newworld; breathed a new air; been warmed by a new sun. 

Wright himself met him with a cordiality so new to Livingstone and yetso natural and unforced that Livingstone wondered whether he could havebeen living in a dream all these years or whether he was in a dreamto-night. 

Among the guests he suddenly came on one who made him think to-nightmust be the dream. 

Mrs. Wright, with glowing eyes, presented him to a lady dressed inblack, as "an old friend, she believed:" a fair, sweet-looking womanwith soft eyes and a calm mouth. 

The name Mrs. Wright mentioned was "Mrs. Shepherd, " but as Livingstonelooked the face was that of Catherine Trelane. 

The evening was a fitting ending to a happy day--the first Livingstonehad had in many a year. Even Mrs. Shepherd's failure to give him theopportunity he sought to talk with her could not wholly mar it. 

Later, Livingstone heard Mrs. Wright begin to tell some one of his actof the night before, in buying up a toy-shop for the children at thehospital. 

"I always believed in him, " she asserted warmly. 

Livingstone caught his name and, turning to Mrs. Wright, with someembarrassment and much warmth, declared that she was mistaken, that hehad not done it. 

Mrs. Wright laughed incredulously. 

"I suspected it this morning when I first heard of it; but now I havethe indisputable proof. "

She held up a note. 

"'I think I've heard of you before, '" she laughed, with a capitalimitation of Mr. Brown's manner. 

"I still deny it, " insisted Livingstone, blushing, and as Mrs. Wrightstill affirmed her belief, he told her the story of Santa Claus'spartner. 

Insensibly, as he told it, the other voices hushed down. 

He told it well; for his heart was full of the little girl who had ledhim from the frozen land back to the land of light. 

As he ended, from another room somewhere up-stairs, came a child'sclear voice singing, _God west you, mer-wy gentle-men, Let nossing you dismay; For Jesus Chwist our Sa-wiour Was born this ve-wy day. _

Livingstone looked at Mrs. Shepherd. 

She was standing under the long evergreen festoons just where they metand formed a sort of verdant archway. Two of the children of the house, attracted by Livingstone's story, had come and pressed against her asthey listened with interested faces, and she had put her arms about themand drawn their curly heads close to her side. A spray of holly withscarlet berries was at her throat and one of the children hadmischievously stuck a sprig of mistletoe in her hair. Her face wasturned aside, her eyes were downcast, the long, dark lashes droopingagainst her cheek, and on her face rested a divine compassion; and asLivingstone gazed on her he saw the same gracious figure and fineprofile that he had seen the night before outlined against the light inthe archway of the gate of the Children's Hospital. It was thereflective face of one who has felt; but when she raised her eyes theywere the eyes of Catherine Trelane. And suddenly, as Livingstone lookedinto them, they had softened, and she seemed to be standing, as she hadstood so long ago, in the Christmas evening light in a long avenue underswaying boughs, in the heart of the land of his youth. 

While still, somewhere above, the child's voice carolled, --_Let nossing you dismay; For Jesus Christ our Sa-wiour Was born this ve-wy day_. 

FINIS