There were none but the young ones left with him. Most of them were gathered round the fire at Willie's feet. The youngest, little Cecily, had climbed upon his knee. Long ago--at least what seemed long ago to her--she had climbed up into his heart. She put her arm round his neck, and had been telling him 'secrets' in soft half-whispers. A little way off Roger and Lois sat in the window, and talked together in low voices--most likely they had 'secrets' too. The old man often looked towards them. It may be that something in Roger's attitude, or in the downcast face of Lois, brought back a dim picture to him through the far off years. He smiled, but he sighed too, as he smoothed little Cecily's fair hair. She had got his big silver watch in both her hands, and was listening to its ticking and to what Willie said about it. The children on the hearth were forming wishes for the coming year. 'And I wish,' said one, gravely and clearly, 'that I was big, and very useful.' The others were quiet for a moment, and then they laughed, and their laughter rang musically through the old kitchen. Willie smiled at the little speaker, and went on with what he was saying to Cecily. 'And you see, Cecily, how the busy hands keep on and on, always doing their work. Look how quickly the long one gets on. It goes round ever so many times faster than the short one, and yet that is doing its work too all the time--doing its very best. But you could not expect the short hand to do as much, or in the world the little short legs to be quite as useful as the long ones.' 'The long ones like yours;' and Cecily held out a short bare leg of her own and looked at it. 'Yes, the long ones like mine;' said Willie. 'They have made many journeys, little Cecily.' 'Willie,' she asked, opening her eyes, 'how many times has the long hand gone round since you was a little boy?' He shook his head gravely. The days of his years were past Willie's counting. 'Will you tell us all about it?' said the little maiden who had wished to be very useful. Then all the others jumped up and echoed the petition. 'Tell us your story. Because it is New Year's Eve, Willie. Because it is the last day of the Old Year.' Lois came and sat down beside him and begged too, and Roger leant over her chair. 'Do tell us about your life, dear old friend. We have so often wished to know.' Willie still shook his head, but somehow the chord of memory had been touched to-night, and it was vibrating still. Perhaps because, as the children said, it was the last day of the Old Year. He looked out of the window at the coming darkness, and then back upon the young listening faces in the firelight. And he told them his story. It was a very simple one. PART I. _We spend our years as a tale that is told_ Look, it is evening, quite evening at last. See how the light has faded, and the shadows have fallen over the hills. The day is over, the twilight is gathering.