nto a
merry laugh that did one's heart good to hear. "They all are! Lord bless
me! The number that I have seen, and each and every one--and quite right
too--the sweetest child in all the world. And how old, do you say? Two
and a half all but two months except a week? The very sweetest age of
all, I'll bet you say, eh, what? They all do!"

And the old man broke again into such a jolly chuckling of laughter that
his snow-white locks shook upon his head.

"But stop a bit," he added. "This horse is broken. Tut, tut, a hind leg
nearly off. This won't do!"

He had the toy in his lap in a moment, mending it. It was wonderful to
see, for all his age, how deft his fingers were.

"Time," he said, and it was amusing to note that his voice had assumed
almost an authoritative tone, "reach me that piece of string. That's
right. Here, hold your finger across the knot. There! Now, then, a bit
of beeswax. What? No beeswax? Tut, tut, how ill-supplied your houses
are to-day. How can you mend toys, sir, without beeswax? Still, it will
stand up now."

I tried to murmur by best thanks.

But Father Christmas waved my gratitude aside.

"Nonsense," he said, "that's nothing. That's my life. Perhaps the little
boy would like a book too. I have them here in the packet. Here, sir,
_Jack and the Bean Stalk_, most profound thing. I read it to myself
often still. How damp it is! Pray, sir, will you let me dry my books
before your fire?"

"Only too willingly," I said. "How wet and torn they are!"

Father Christmas had risen from his chair and was fumbling among his
tattered packages, taking from them his children's books, all limp and
draggled from the rain and wind.

"All wet and torn!" he murmured, and his voice sank again into sadness.
"I have carried them these three years past. Look! These were for little
children in Belgium and in Serbia. Can I get them to them, think you?"

Time gently shook his head.

"But presently, perhaps," said Father Christmas, "if I dry and mend
them. Look, some of them were inscribed already! This one, see you, was
written '_With father's love_.' Why has it never come to him? Is it rain
or tears upon the page?"

He stood bowed over his little books, his hands trembling as he turned
the pages. Then he looked up, the old fear upon his face again.

"That sound!" he said. "Listen! It is guns--I hear them."

"No, no," I said, "it is nothing. Only a car passing in the street
below."

"Listen," he said. "He