But he grew weary of ringing and of being repulsed.  It was dismal standing still, however, and quite as comfortless sitting down.  He was so cold!  So, to keep his blood in motion, he keeps his limbs in motion,—­till, lo! here he is again at the house where the happy children were!  They have ceased their play.  Two young girls are at the window, gazing out into the darkness, as if expecting some one.  Not you, miserable!  You needn’t stop and make signs for them to admit you.  There! don’t you see you have frightened them?  You are not a fitting spectacle for such sweet-eyed darlings.  They do well to drop the shade, to shut out the darkness, and the dim, gesticulating phantom.  Flit on!  ’Tis their father they are looking for, coming home to them with gifts from the city.

But he does not flit.  When, presently, they lift a corner of the shade to peep out, they see him still standing there, spectral in the gloom.  He is waiting for them to open the door!  He thinks they have quitted the window for that purpose!  Ah! here comes the father, and they are glad.

He comes hurrying from the cars under his umbrella, which is braced against the gale and shuts out from his eyes the sight of the unsheltered wretch.  And he is hastily entering his door, which is opened to him by the eager children, when they scream alarm; and looking over his shoulder, he perceives, following at his heels, the fright.  He is one of your full-blooded, solid men; but he is startled.

“What do you want?” he cries, and lifts the threatening umbrella.

“I’m hungry,” says the intruder, with a ghastly glare, still advancing.

He stands taller in his tattered shoes than the solid gentleman in his boots; and those long, lean, claw-like hands act as if anxious to clutch something.  Papa thinks it is his throat.

“By heavens! and do you mean to”—­And he prepares to charge umbrella.

“You may!” answers the wretch, with perfect sincerity, presenting his ragged bosom to the blow.

The lord of the castle lowers his weapon.  The children huddle behind him, hushing their screams.

“Go in, Minnie!  In, all of you!  Tell Stephen to come here,—­quick!”

The children scamper.  And the florid, prosperous parent and the gaunt and famishing pauper are alone, confronting each other by the light of the shining hall-lamp.

“I’m cold,” says the latter,—­“and wet,” with an aguish shiver.

“I should think so!” cries the gentleman, recovering from his alarm, and getting his breath again, as he hears Stephen’s step behind him.  “Stand back, can’t you?” (indignantly).  “Don’t you see you are dripping on the carpet?”

“I’m so tired!”

“Well! you needn’t rub yourself against the door, if you are!  Don’t you see you are smearing it?  What are you roaming about in this way for, intruding into people’s houses?”

“Please, Sir, I don’t know,” is the soft, sad answer; and Fessenden’s is meekly taking himself away.