many, not by name, of course, but he could place them in the many institutions over which he presided.  It was very evident that they were expecting something of him; they were looking at him that way.  For once in his life he was at loss for the correct thing to say.  He tried closing his eyes two or three times to see if he could not blink them into vanishing; but when he looked again there they were, more eager-eyed than before.

“Well,” he found himself saying at last—­“well, what is it?”

That was all; but it brought the children like a Hamlin troop to the piper’s cry—­flocking about him unafraid.  Never in all his charitable life had he ever had children gather about him and look up at him this way.  Little groping hands pulled at his cuffs or steadied themselves on his knee; more venturesome ones slipped into his or hunted their way into his coat pockets.  They were such warm, friendly, trusting little hands—­and the faces; the President of Saint Margaret’s Free Hospital for Children caught himself wondering why in all his charitable experience he had never had a child overstep a respectful distance before, or look at him save with a strange, alien expression.

He sat very still for fear of frightening them off; he liked the warmth and friendliness of their little bodies pressed close to him; there was something pleasantly hypnotic in the feeling of small hands tugging at him.  Suddenly he became conscious of a change in the children’s faces; the gladness was fading out and in its place was creeping a perplexed, questioning sorrow.

“Don’t.”  And the President patted assuringly as many little backs as he could reach.  “What—­what was it you expected?”

He was answered by a quivering of lips and more insistent tugs at his pockets.  It flashed upon him—­out of some dim memory—­that children liked surprises discovered unexpectedly in some one’s pockets.  Was this why they had searched him out?  He found himself frantically wishing that he had something stowed away somewhere for them.  His hands followed theirs into all the numerous pockets he possessed; trousers, coat, and vest were searched twice over; they were even turned inside out in the last hope of disclosing just one surprise.

“I should think,” said the President, addressing himself, “that a man might keep something pleasant in empty pockets.  What are pockets for, anyway?”

The children shook their heads sorrowfully.

“Wouldn’t to-morrow do?” he suggested, hopefully; but there was no response from the children, and the weight that had been settling down upon him, in the region of his chest, noticeably increased.  He tried to shake it off, it was so depressing—­like the accruing misfortune of some pending event.

“Don’t shake,” said a voice behind him; “that isn’t your misfortune.  You will only shake it off on the children, and it’s time enough for them to bear it when they wake up in the morning and find out—­”