He was leaving the window, when there came up in the street outside an old man, whose clothes hung in rags about him, and who looked half frozen. He was about the same age as the old gentleman inside the window, and the same height, and had grey, curly hair, like his, and if they had been dressed alike any one would have taken them for two brothers. “Oh, really,” said the old gentleman irritably, “this is most annoying. The parish ought to take up these sort of people, and prevent their wandering about the streets and molesting honest folk,” for the poor old man had taken off his hat, and began to beg. “It is Christmas Day,” he said, and though he did not speak very loud, the old gentleman could hear every word he said quite plainly through the window. “It is Christmas Day, and you will have your dinner here in your warm room. Of your charity give me a silver shilling that I may go into an eating-shop, and have a dinner too.” “A silver shilling!” cried the old gentleman, “I never heard of such a thing! Monstrous! Go away, I never give to beggars, and you must have done something very wicked to become so poor.” But still the old man stood there, though the snow was falling on his shoulders, and on his bare head. “Then give me a copper,” he said; “just one penny, that to-day I may not starve.” “Certainly not,” cried the old gentleman; “I tell you I never give to beggars at all.” But the old man did not move. “Then,” he said, “give me some of the broken victuals from your table, that I may creep into a doorway and eat a Christmas dinner there.” “I will give you nothing,” cried the old gentleman, stamping his foot. “Go away. Go away at once, or I shall send for the policeman to take you away.” The old beggar-man put on his hat and turned quietly away, but what the old gentleman thought was very odd was, that instead of seeming distressed he was laughing merrily, and then he looked back at the window, and called out some words, but they were in a foreign tongue, and the old gentleman could not understand them. So he returned to his comfortable arm-chair by the fire, still murmuring angrily that beggars ought not to be allowed to be in the streets.