There was a side door just beyond the bay-window, and Dowden went to it and rang, loud and long. It was Beasley himself who opened it. “What in the name--” he began, as the ruddy light fell upon Dowden's face and upon me, standing a little way behind. “What ARE you two--snow-banks? What on earth are you fellows doing out here?” “We've come to your Christmas party, you old horse-thief!” Thus Mr. Dowden. “HOO-ray!” said Beasley. Dowden turned to me. “Aren't you coming?” “What are you waiting for, old fellow?” said Beasley. I waited a moment longer, and then it happened. She came out of the shadow and went to the foot of the steps, her cloak falling from her shoulders as she passed me. I picked it up. She lifted her arms pleadingly, though her head was bent with what seemed to me a beautiful sort of shame. She stood there with the snow driving against her and did not speak. Beasley drew his hand slowly across his eyes--to see if they were really there, I think. “David,” she said, at last. “You've got so many lovely people in your house to-night: isn't there room for--for just one fool? It's Christmas-time!” End of Project Gutenberg's Beasley's Christmas Party, by Booth Tarkington