igh.

"Now story," said he, and became once more for this evening the little
child of a year back.

He listened with satisfaction to his father's unvarying Christmas story
of the Good Little Boy who went to bed and slept soundly and awoke to
varied gorgeousness of gifts; and the Bad Little Boy who slipped out and
"hooked" a ride on Santa Claus's very sleigh, and next morning, on
seeing his stocking full congratulated himself that he had been
unobserved; but on opening the stocking beheld a magic ruler that
followed him everywhere he went and spanked him vigorously and
continuously: "Even into the conservatory?" Bobby in his believing
infancy used to ask. "Even into the conservatory," his father would
solemnly reply.

After the story Bobby had to go to bed.

"And look out you don't open your eyes if you hear Santa Claus in the
room," warned his mother. "Because if you do, he won't leave you any
presents!"

Bobby kissed them all and trudged upstairs. He was too old to believe in
Santa Claus. His attitude during the rest of the year was frank
scepticism. Yet when Christmas eve came around, he found that he had
retained just enough faith to be doubtful. It was manifestly impossible
that such a person could exist; and yet there remained the faint chance.
Nobody believes that horseshoes bring luck; and yet we all pick them up.
Bobby resolved, as usual, to stay awake. Once in former years he had
awakened in the dark hours. He had become conscious of a bright and
unusual light in the street, and had hidden his head, fairly convinced
that Santa was passing. Nobody told Bobby that the light was the lantern
on a wagon making late deliveries. To-night he hung his stocking at the
foot of his bed, resolved to see who filled it. The Tree was not to be
unveiled until ten o'clock; and it was ridiculous to expect a small boy
to wait until then without _anything_. Hence the stocking.

Bobby must have stayed awake an hour. The room gradually became cold. A
dozen times his thoughts began to swell into queer ideas, and as many
times he brought himself back to complete consciousness. Then quite
distinctly he heard the sound of sleighbells, faint and far and
continuous. Bobby's sleepy thoughts resolved about the old question.
This might be Santa. Dared he look? As his faculties cleared, his
common-sense resumed sway. He turned over in bed. Then he found that the
faint far sound was not of sleighbells at all, but of the first steam
sing