Agnes and her brothers and sisters ran down the steps of their London home, one frosty morning towards the end of the holidays, and turned their steps toward Regent's Park. While the roar of omnibuses was for ever in their ears there could be little talking, but when they began to find quieter streets they gathered close to Agnes, begging for "a story." This was a usual custom with them, and Agnes quickly responded by beginning cheerfully: "Oh, yes, you have never had the account of our other visit on Christmas-eve; so I must begin where I left off last time." * * * * * "When Minnie and I reached home, with the bells ringing the refrain of peace and contentment, we just came in to warm our fingers, and then started forth again on our last errand. This time our parcel was even heavier than before, and we were very glad when we reached the house to which our steps were bound. "House it was not, being just a large room over a stable, where, as you know, Martha, our former housemaid, lives, since she married Jim, the cabman. "We picked our way as well as we could over the stones, slippery and wet with mud, and at last came to the door leading to the staircase which runs up by the side of the coach-house. We found it ajar, and as the bell was broken we made our way up in the darkness. All was pitchy black, but a baby wailing above told us there must be somebody within. We found the door of the room at the top, and knocked. A voice, sharp and quick, which I should hardly have known for Martha's soft one, answered, 'What do you want?' and on this invitation we entered. "No light was in the room, but the gas-lamp of the yard shed flickering and uncertain gleams through the window into the barest and untidiest of chambers. "We could see, as our eyes became used to the dim light, that Martha was seated near the empty grate, holding the baby in her lap, while three little mites were huddled up against her knees on the floor. "Desolate indeed everything seemed. "'Why, Martha,' said I, 'are you all in the dark? Shall I find a light for you?' "'Is it you, Miss Agnes?' said Martha, in somewhat of her old tone of respect. 'I beg your pardon, miss, but I'm that harassed with all my troubles, that I don't rightly know what I'm doing.' "'What is it?' asked I, advancing. 'What has come to you?' "'Everything bad,' she moaned, in the saddest of tones. 'You know I would marry Jim, though Mrs. Headley told me he was not a steady man, and too soon I've found her words true; we've been going on from bad to worse, till one by one all my nice clothes went, then our bits of furniture, and now we haven't a morsel to eat, nor a scrap of fire, nor an end of candle!' "Too utterly miserable to hide her woe under her usual mask of reserve, and encouraged by the darkness, she continued in a voice husky and dry with suppressed grief: