"I'd carry that doll--to Jean, and that--to Sue, and that--to Mollie, and that--to Dee, and those skates to Johnny, and--that sled to Tom, and--that woolly lamb to little Billy, 'cause he loves squshy things.--And then--I'd take all the rest in my sleigh and I'd go to the hospital where the poor little children haven't got any good papas and mammas like me to give them anything, and where Santa Claus can't ever go, and I'd put something by the side of every bed--of every one, and, maybe, they'd think at first it was only a dream; but when they waked up wide they'd find Santa Claus had been there, sure enough!" In her energy she was gesticulating with earnest hands that seemed to take each present and bear it to its destination, and she concluded with a little nod to Livingstone that seemed to recognize him as in sympathy with her, and to say, "Wouldn't we if we only could?" It seemed to Livingstone as though a casing of ice in which he had been enclosed had suddenly broken and he were bathed in warmth. The millstone round his neck had suddenly dropped and he shot upward into the light. The child was leading him into a new and vernal world. He wanted to take her in his arms and press her to his heart. The difference between the glance she now gave him and that she had shot at him at the door of his office that evening came to him and decided him. It was worth it all. "Yes. Is there anything else you wish?" he asked, hoping that there might be, for she had not mentioned herself. "Yes, but it's not anything Santa Claus can give," she said calmly; "I have asked God for it." "What?" asked Livingstone. "Something to make mamma well: to help papa pay for the house. He says it's that 'at keeps her ill, and she says if she were well he could pay for it: and I just pray to God for it every day." Livingstone caught his breath quickly as if from a sudden pain. The long years of Clark's faithful service flashed before him. He shivered at the thought of his own meanness. He was afraid those great eyes might see into his heart. He almost shrivelled at the thought. "Well, let's take a sleigh-ride and see if any other shops are open. Then we can return." He spoke a few words aside to Mr. Brown. The shopkeeper's eyes opened wide. "But you say you haven't money enough with you, and I don't know you?" Livingstone smiled. "Why, man, I am worth--" He stopped short as a faint trace of seven figures appeared vaguely before his eyes. "I am worth enough to buy all this square and not feel it," he said, quickly correcting himself. "That may be all so, but I don't know you," persisted the shopkeeper. "Do you know anybody in this part of the town?" "Well, I know Mr. Clark. He would vouch for me, but--." The shopkeeper turned to the child. "Kitty, you know this gentleman, you say?" "Yes. Oh, he's all right," said Kitty decisively. "He's my papa's employer and he gave him _fifty_ dollars last Christmas, 'cause my papa told me so."