He thrust them into her hand and ran quickly down the street, as though he feared that the keen air might make him change his mind in spite of himself. He had to stop a great many times that day to breathe on his purple hands. Still, he did not regret having lent his mittens to William John--poor, pale, sickly little William John, who had so few pleasures. It was sunset when Bertie laid an armful of parcels down on the steps of Doctor Forbes's handsome house. His back was turned towards the big bay window at one side, and he was busy trying to warm his hands, so he did not see the two small faces looking at him through the frosty panes. "Just look at that poor little boy, Amy," said the taller of the two. "He is almost frozen, I believe. Why doesn't Caroline hurry and open the door?" "There she goes now," said Amy. "Edie, couldn't we coax her to let him come in and get warm? He looks so cold." And she drew her sister out into the hall, where the housekeeper was taking Bertie's parcels. "Caroline," whispered Edith timidly, "please tell that poor little fellow to come in and get warm--he looks very cold." "He's used to the cold, I warrant you," said the housekeeper rather impatiently. "It won't hurt him." "But it is Christmas week," said Edith gravely, "and you know, Caroline, when Mamma was here she used to say that we ought to be particularly thoughtful of others who were not so happy or well-off as we were at this time." Perhaps Edith's reference to her mother softened Caroline, for she turned to Bertie and said cordially enough, "Come in, and warm yourself before you go. It's a cold day." Bertie shyly followed her to the kitchen. "Sit up to the fire," said Caroline, placing a chair for him, while Edith and Amy came round to the other side of the stove and watched him with friendly interest. "What's your name?" asked Caroline. "Robert Ross, ma'am." "Oh, you're Mrs. Ross's nephew then," said Caroline, breaking eggs into her cake-bowl, and whisking them deftly round. "And you're Sampson's errand boy just now? My goodness," as the boy spread his blue hands over the fire, "where are your mittens, child? You're never out without mittens a day like this!" "I lent them to William John--he hadn't any," faltered Bertie. He did not know but that the lady might consider it a grave crime to be mittenless. "No mittens!" exclaimed Amy in dismay. "Why, I have three pairs. And who is William John?" "He is my cousin," said Bertie. "And he's awful sickly. He wanted to go out to play, and he hadn't any mittens, so I lent him mine. I didn't miss them--much." "What kind of a Christmas did you have?" "We didn't have any." "No Christmas!" said Amy, quite overcome. "Oh, well, I suppose you are going to have a good time on New Year's instead." Bertie shook his head. "No'm, I guess not. We never have it different from other times." Amy was silent from sheer amazement. Edith understood better, and she changed the subject.