She returned from the sanctum composedly. He waited a moment that they might not reappear together, and came out with eyes shining and heart a-beat. He had kissed her! He had kissed her! The entrance of Mrs. Martin and the maid, the one bearing heaping dishes of ice cream, and the other, as he had unwittingly prophesied, a luscious, heavily-frosted chocolate cake, brought him down to more mundane thoughts with alacrity. Indeed, he devoted himself to his portion with such earnestness that he was able to finish and place his empty plate innocently under his chair, and wait until his plight caught the servant's eye. "Why, haven't you had any, little boy?" He shook his head mournfully. "How did Mrs. Martin ever come to skip you? I'll bring you some right away!" When she reappeared, he winked heartily at his amazed companions and settled to the second helping of ice cream. At last the party came to an end, as all such joyous occasions must, and he found himself on the sidewalk, looking up once more at the now darkened parlor. Far up the street came the hooting and jeering of a gang--possibly his own--although the voices seemed older and strange, and the gate of the house next the apartment building had disappeared, leaving empty hinges as mute testimony that some band of witches had done their work thoroughly and well. In response to his prolonged ring and joyous kicks on the home door, Mrs. Fletcher let him in. "Don't pound so hard, son," she cautioned. "We're not deaf." "Might a' thought it was some Halloween gang if I didn't," he defended himself as he threw his hat on the nearest chair. "Have a good time?" she queried. "Did I?" The earnestness of his voice left little doubt as to his sentiments. "Did I? You just bet I did!" The family always slept late on Sunday morning, but at that, John, worn out by the excitement of the preceding evening, stirred drowsily when his father appeared in the doorway. "Come on, John; time to get up." "Yes, dad," gazing at him with lackluster eyes. As Mr. Fletcher left, he turned his face promptly toward the wall and dropped off to sleep again. "John!" It was his mother's voice this time. "Uhu." "Why didn't you get up when your father called you?" "Aw, let me alone. I don't want any breakfast. Honest, I don't." "Nonsense! You can take a nap in the afternoon if you want. Come on. I won't go down stairs until I see you up." He might as well, then. Mrs. Fletcher was pretty well versed in his tricks, thanks to long years of experience, and there was little chance of further delay. So John sat up and dangled his legs over the side of the bed, while he rubbed his sleep-laden eyes with his fists. "Need a wet washrag?" No. He was wide awake now. He listened to her steps on the stairs, and to the opening of the front door as his father brought in the morning paper. Then he fingered one stocking abstractedly.