for him, and
Livingstone, giving him a number, sprang in and ordered him to drive
rapidly.

The sleigh stopped in front of a little house, in a narrow street filled
with little houses, and Livingstone getting out mounted the small flight
of steps. Inside, pandemonium seemed to have broken loose somewhere
up-stairs, such running and shouting and shrieks of joyous laughter
Livingstone heard. Then, as he could not find the bell, Livingstone
knocked.

At the sound the noise suddenly ceased, but the next moment it burst
forth again louder than before. This time the shouts came rolling down
the stairs and towards the door, with a scamper of little feet and
shrieks of childish delight. They were interrupted and restrained by a
quiet, kindly voice which Livingstone recognized as Clark's. The father
was trying to keep the children back.

It might be Santa Claus himself, Livingstone heard him urge, and if they
did not go back to bed immediately, or into the back room,--or even if
they peeped, Santa Claus might jump into his sleigh and drive away and
leave nobody at the door but a grocer's boy with a parcel. This direful
threat had its effect. The gleeful squeals were hushed down into subdued
and half-awed murmurs and after a little a single footstep came along
the passage and the front door was opened cautiously.

At sight of Livingstone, Clark started, and by the light of the lamp the
caller could see his face pale a little. He asked Livingstone in with a
voice that almost faltered. Leaving Livingstone in the little passage
for a moment Clark entered the first room--the front room--and
Livingstone could hear him sending the occupants into a rear room. He
heard the communicating door close softly. Every sound was suddenly
hushed. It was like the sudden hush of birds when a hawk appears.
Livingstone thought of it and a pang shot through him. Then the door
was opened and Clark somewhat stiffly invited Livingstone in.

The room was a small front parlor.

The furniture was old and worn, but it was not mean. A few old pieces
gave the room, small as it was, almost an air of distinction. Several
old prints hung on the walls, a couple of portraits in pink crayon, such
as St. Mimin used to paint, and a few photographs in frames, most of
them of children,--but among them one of Livingstone himself.

All this Livingstone took in as he entered. The room was in a state of
confusion, and a lounge on one side, with its pillows still be