While Lizzie was indulging in expressions of delight at the superb wax doll which St. Nicholas had so generously provided, her attention was for a moment drawn to the window, through which she distinctly saw the figure of our hero, who, as we have said, had in his eagerness raised himself upon the railing outside, in order to obtain a better view. She uttered an exclamation of surprise. “Why, mother! there’s a boy looking in at the window! Just look at him!” Mrs. Dinsmoor looked in the direction indicated, and saw the little boy, without his perceiving that attention had been drawn towards him. “Some poor boy,” she remarked to her husband, in a compassionate tone, “who loses for a moment the sensation of his own discomfort in witnessing our happiness. See how eagerly he looks at the tree! which no doubt appears like something marvellous to him.” “Why can’t you let him come in?” asked Lizzie, eagerly. “He must be very cold out there, with the snow-flakes falling upon him. Perhaps he would like to have a nearer view of our tree.” “Very well and kindly thought of, my little girl,” said Mr. Dinsmoor, placing his hand for a moment upon her clustering locks. “I will follow your suggestion; but I must do it carefully, or he may be frightened, and run away before he knows what are our intentions.” So speaking, Mr. Dinsmoor moved cautiously to the front door, and opened it suddenly. The boy, startled by the sound, turned towards Mr. Dinsmoor with a frightened air, as if fearing that he would be suspected of some improper motive. “Indeed, sir,” said he, earnestly, “I didn’t mean any harm; but it looked so bright and cheerful inside that I couldn’t help looking in.” “You have done nothing wrong, my boy,” said Mr. Dinsmoor, kindly. “But you must be cold here. Come in, and you will have a chance to see more comfortably than you now do.” The boy looked a little doubtful; for to him, neglected as he had been by the rich and prosperous all his life, it was very difficult to imagine that he was actually invited to enter the imposing mansion before him as a guest. Perhaps Mr. Dinsmoor divined his doubts; for he continued,— “Come: you must not refuse the invitation. There are some little people inside who would be very much disappointed if you should, since it was they who commissioned me to invite you.” “I am sure, sir, I am very much obliged both to them and to you,” said the boy, gratefully, advancing towards Mr. Dinsmoor, of whom he had lost whatever little distrust he had at first felt. A moment afterwards, and the boy stepped within the spacious parlor. To him, whose home offered no attractions, and few comforts, the scene spread before him might well seem a scene of enchantment. “Lizzie,” said Mr. Dinsmoor, “come forward and welcome your guest. I would introduce him to you; but, unluckily, I do not know his name.” “My name is Willie,—Willie Grant,” was the boy’s reply.