“To leave some presents for the children.”

“What children?”

“All the good children—­all the sick children, I mean—­all the children,” said Kitty.

The matron turned and spoke to the porter, showing to Livingstone, as she did so, a glimpse of a finely cut profile and a comely figure silhouetted against the light within.  The bolts were drawn from the gate of the driveway and the doors rolled back.

“Come in,” said the matron, and the little figure enveloped in the shaggy cape and hood walked in under the big arch followed by the sleigh, whilst Livingstone withdrew a short distance into the shadow.

It was some time before the doors opened again and Kitty reappeared, but Livingstone did not mind it.  It was cold too, but neither did he mind that.  He was warm.  As he walked up and down in the empty street before the long building his heart was warmed with a glow which had not been there for many and many a long year.  He was not alone.  Once more the memory of other Christmases passed through his mind in long processional, but now not stamped with irretrievable opportunity, to mock him with vain regret for lost happiness; only tinged with a sadness for lost friends who came trooping about him; yet lightened by his resolve to begin from now on and strive as best he might to retrieve his wasted life, and whilst he bore his punishment do what he could to make atonement for his past.

Just then across the town the clocks began to sound the midnight hour, and as they ceased, from somewhere far-away church bells mellowed by the distance began to chime the old Christmas hymn:—­

"While shepherds watched their flocks by night, All seated on the ground, The angel of the Lord came down, And glory shone around."

Livingstone stood still to listen, in a half-dream.

Suddenly before him in the snow stood a little figure muffled in a shaggy cape with hood half thrown back.  The childish face was uplifted in the moonlight.  With lips half parted she too was listening, and for a moment Livingstone could hardly take in that she was real.  She seemed—!

Could she be—?

“The angel of the Lord came down,”—­chimed the mellow bells.

The chiming died out.

“Christ is born,” said the child.  “You heard the bells?”

“Yes,” said Livingstone humbly.

“It’s all done,” she said; “and I prayed so hard that not one of them stirred, and now when they wake they’ll think it was real Santa Claus.  They say he always comes at twelve and I counted the clocks.—­I wonder if he went home?” She was speaking now to herself; but Livingstone answered.

“I’m sure of it,” he said.

“The angel of the Lord came down," still chimed in his ears.

Suddenly a little warm hand was slipped into his confidingly.

“I think we’d better go home now.”  The voice was full of deep content.