“But the boy told me, the boy wot got things from this ’ere chap wot comes down chimneys.  An’ I’ve wrote wot I want an’ sent it up the chimney.  Don’t you think I’ll get it?”

William looked down at her.  Her blue eyes, big with apprehension, were fixed on him, her little rosy lips were parted.  William’s heart softened.

“I dunno,” he said doubtfully.  “You might, I s’pose.  What d’you want for Christmas?”

“You won’t tell if I tell you?”

“No.”

“Not to no one?”

“No.”

“Say, ‘Cross me throat.’”

William complied with much interest and stored up the phrase for future use.

“Well,” she sank her voice very low and spoke into his ear.

“Dad’s comin’ out Christmas Eve!”

She leant back and watched him, anxious to see the effect of this stupendous piece of news.  Her face expressed pride and delight, William’s merely bewilderment.

“Comin’ out?” he repeated.  “Comin’ out of where?”

Her expression changed to one of scorn.

“Prison, of course! Silly!”

William was half offended, half thrilled.

“Well, I couldn’t know it was prison, could I?  How could I know it was prison without bein’ told?  It might of been out of anything.  What—­” in hushed curiosity and awe—­“what was he in prison for?”

“Stealin’.”

Her pride was unmistakable.  William looked at her in disapproval.

“Stealin’s wicked,” he said virtuously.

“Huh!” she jeered, “you can’t steal!  You’re too soft! Softie!  You can’t steal without bein’ copped fust go, you can’t.”

“I could!” he said indignantly.  “And, any way, he got copped di’n’t he? or he’d not of been in prison, so there!”

“He di’n’t get copped fust go.  It was jus’ a sorter mistake, he said.  He said it wun’t happen again.  He’s a jolly good stealer.  The cops said he was and they oughter know.”

“Well,” said William changing the conversation, “what d’you want for Christmas?”

“I wrote it on a bit of paper an’ sent it up the chimney,” she said confidingly.  “I said I di’n’t want no toys nor sweeties nor nuffin’.  I said I only wanted a nice supper for Dad when he comes out Christmas Eve.  We ain’t got much money, me an’ Mother, an’ we carn’t get ’im much of a spread, but if this ’ere Christmas chap sends one fer ’im, it’ll be—­fine!”

Her eyes were dreamy with ecstasy.  William stirred uneasily on his seat.

“I tol’ you it was rot,” he said.  “There isn’t any Father Christmas.  It’s jus’ an’ ole tale folks tell you when you’re a kid, an’ you find out it’s not true.  He won’t send no supper jus’ cause he isn’t anythin’.  He’s jus’ nothin’—­jus’ an ole tale——­”

“Oh, shut up!” William turned sharply at the sound of the shrill voice from the bed within the room.  “Let the kid ’ave a bit of pleasure lookin’ forward to it, can’t yer?  It’s little enough she ’as, anyway.”