“I’m happy to make her acquaintance,” said S.C., “and I’m happy to make yours.  You are a nice child, though a trifle peppery.  I’m very glad to see you.”

“I’m very glad indeed to see you, sir,” said Jem.  “I wasn’t quite sure—­”

But there she stopped, feeling that it would be scarcely polite to tell him that she had begun of late years to lose faith in him.

But S.C. only chuckled more comfortably than ever and rubbed his hands again.

[Illustration:  “Eh!  Eh!” he said.  “What!  What!  Who’s this, Tootsicums?”]

“Ho, ho!” he said.  “You know who I am, then?”

Jem hesitated a moment, wondering whether it would not be taking a liberty to mention his name without putting “Mr.” before it:  then she remembered what Baby had called him.

“Baby called you ‘Mr. Claus,’ sir,” she replied; “and I have seen pictures of you.”

“To be sure,” said S.C.  “S.  Claus, Esquire, of Chimneyland.  How do you like me?”

“Very much,” answered Jem; “very much, indeed, sir.”

“Glad of it!  Glad of it!  But what was it you were going to say you were not quite sure of?”

Jem blushed a little.

“I was not quite sure that—­that you were true, sir.  At least I have not been quite sure since I have been older.”

S.C. rubbed the bald part of his head and gave a little sigh.

“I hope I have not hurt your feelings, sir,” faltered Jem, who was a very kind hearted little soul.

“Well, no,” said S.C.  “Not exactly.  And it is not your fault either.  It is natural, I suppose; at any rate, it is the way of the world.  People lose their belief in a great many things as they grow older; but that does not make the things not true, thank goodness! and their faith often comes back after a while.  But, bless me!” he added, briskly, “I’m moralizing, and who thanks a man for doing that?  Suppose—­”

“Black eyes or blue, sir?” said a tiny voice close to them.

Jem and Flora turned round, and saw it was one of the small workers who was asking the question.

“Whom for?” inquired S.C.

“Little girl in the red brick house at the corner,” said the workwoman; “name of Birdie.”

“Excuse me a moment,” said S.C. to the children, and he turned to the big book and began to run his fingers down the pages in a business-like manner.  “Ah! here she is!” he exclaimed at last.  “Blue eyes, if you please, Thistle, and golden hair.  And let it be a big one.  She takes good care of them.”

“Yes, sir,” said Thistle; “I am personally acquainted with several dolls in her family.  I go to parties in her dolls’ house sometimes when she is fast asleep at night, and they all speak very highly of her.  She is most attentive to them when they are ill.  In fact, her pet doll is a cripple, with a stiff leg.”

She ran back to her work and S.C. finished his sentence.

“Suppose I show you my establishment,” he said.  “Come with me.”