him
there because he was of gold and ivory and was a lovely thing to look
at--"

"Oh," said Pussy, with her mouth round to say it, "oh, how funny you
talk, Mr. Tony!" She laughed, with her small hands beating her knees.

She was presently, however, very serious, as she set the table. There
was little formality of service. Just three plates and some bread.

Milly, having carried the baby into the other room, was hesitatingly
hospitable. "Won't you have supper with us, Mr. Tony?"

He wanted it. There was a savory smell as Milly lifted the pot from the
stove. But he knew there would be only three potatoes--one for Pussy and
one for Milly and one for the mother who was almost due, and there would
be plenty of gravy. How queer it seemed that his mind should dwell on
gravy!

"Onions are so high," Milly had said, as she stirred it. "I had to put
in just a very little piece."

He declined hastily and got away.

In the hall he met their mother coming in. She was a busy little mother,
and she did not approve of Ostrander. She did not approve of any human
being who would not work.

"A merry Christmas," he said to her, standing somewhat wistfully above
her on the stairs.

She smiled at that. "Oh, Mr. Tony, Mr. Tony, they want a man in the
shop. It would be a good way to begin the New Year."

"Dear lady, I have never worked in a shop--and they wouldn't want me
after the first minute--"

Her puzzled eyes studied him. "Why wouldn't they want you?"

"I am not--dependable--"

"How old are you?" she asked abruptly.

"Twice your age--"

"Nonsense--"

"Not in years, perhaps--but I have lived--oh, how I have lived--!"

He straightened his shoulders and ran his fingers through his hair. She
had a sudden vision of what he might be if shorn of his poverty. There
was something debonair--finished--an almost youthful grace--a hint of
manner--

She sighed. "Oh, the waste of it!"

"Of what?"

She flamed. "Of you!"

Then she went in and shut the door.

He stood uncertainly in the hall. Then once again he faced the cold.

Around the corner was a shop where he would buy the red candle. The ten
cents which he would pay was to have gone for his breakfast. He had
sacrificed his supper that he might not go hungry on Christmas morning.
He had planned a brace of rolls and a bottle of milk. It had seemed to
him that he could face a lean night with the promise of these.

There were no red candles in the shop. There were white