which his little lads had made him so familiar, that any look of comfort or hope returned to his care-lined face.

A little anxiety, but a very pressing one just now, came with the thought that the four dear little feet, which had been treading the world for the past weeks chilled and barefooted, would very probably have to curl up piteously on the cold pavement for some time longer. To get two pairs of small boots, and hope for money to pay for them by-and-by, never entered Gull's head. He had always paid his way without owing any man anything, as his father had before him.

Poor father! and poor little twins!

Yet wishes are sometimes carried quickly to their fulfilment; for a divine Lord changes them into prayers as they go upward.

The following evening, just at the hour when his boys were again straining their ears for the first sound of his footsteps, Gull was standing against one of the lamp posts outside Waterloo Station. He was peering anxiously into the face of every passenger who entered the station, every traveller who drove up from the busy streets, every business man who hurried in from the City.

Gull's lips were hard set. His eyes had a strained, anxious look; his expression was that of a warrior who was fighting a battle against heavy odds.

All day long there had been an inward struggle. Hour by hour the fight had been prolonged. Would honesty win the day? Was Gull leaning upon a strength mightier than his own?

He kept one hand buried in his pocket, always fingering there a something which was the cause of all this mental disturbance. His other hand buttoned and unbuttoned his overcoat with nervous restlessness.

And as he watched, two gentlemen came towards him under the gas lamps. They were walking arm-in-arm, and talking earnestly about shares and stocks, and all those mysterious and fascinating things, that a certain Mr. Weller said "always went up and down in the city."

When Gull saw them he started forward, and looked searchingly into the face of the elder of the two. Then he followed them closely into the station—shuffling along lamely but resolutely.

Twice he put out his hand to touch this gentleman's sleeves, but something stronger than his will seemed to hold him back.

At the platform gate the ticket collector spoke to him.

"What! are you going by the 6.5, Gull?"

"No," he answered; "but I'm bound to have a word with yon gent before he goes."

"If it's a tip you're after, you're on the wrong tack, mate. I know yon gentleman too well." But he let Gull through the gate.

Mr. Kingsley, the elder traveller, was settling himself in a first-class carriage, and leisurely enjoying the delightful employment of lighting his first cigar after a long day's work, when Gull opened the door and looked in.

"Beg pardon, sir," he began, "but did I carry a box for you this morning to the South Eastern, sir?"

Mr. Kingsley looked him well over before he answered, with a twinkle of amusement in his little bright eyes—

"What if you did, man? Wasn't the sixpence heavy enough?"

Gull knew now that he had found the man he wanted. He drew his hand from his pocket and held a bright half-sovereign towards Mr. Kingsley.

"That's what you give me, in mistake, sir," he said huskily, adding, "I'm glad I remembered who 'twas as give it to me."

Again Mr. Kingsley looked the porter well over. Then he turned his eyes to the further end of the railway carriage, and was relieved to see that his fellow-passenger was, to all appearance, deeply interested in his evening paper. I say, to all appearance, for the truth is that he was listening to all that passed; and it is from him that I heard this story, which is no fiction.

Still, though satisfied that he was unnoticed, Mr. Kingsley did not take the proffered coin. After a moment's pause he said—

"How did you find out that I was coming back this way to-night?"

"I seemed to know as you was a 'season,' sir," Gull answered, "and I watched for you."

"Well, well, man! and now, as to that half-sovereign. I expect it will be of more use to you than to me—eh? Keep it, man; keep it."

Gull's pale cheeks flushed.

He stammered out, "You'd—you'd best take it back, sir." It seemed to him as if this was some new form of that terrible temptation which had been assailing him all that long day; and he thrust the half-sovereign forward again.

"No, no! Keep it, man!" repeated Mr. Kingsley. "I'm not going to say a word about your honesty. You are just as much a man as I am; and a true man is always honest. But keep it, because the Christmas bells will ring to-night."

"Thank you, sir."

Written, the words appear cold; but said, as Gull said them, they carried an amount of warmth and gratitude which quite satisfied Mr. Kingsley without the half-involuntary speech that followed, "So there will be boots for the little lads, after all!"

"Bless the man! How jolly you look! Did you get your tanner, then?"

This was the ticket collector's greeting as Gull passed.

"Yon gent's a trump, and no mistake!" answered the other as he hurried along, eager for the delight which such a story would bring to the little ears now listening for his coming in that third floor front in Pleasant Court.

I wonder what it was that moved Mr. Kingsley to a wider generosity that evening than was at all usual in the money-wise, business man? Could it have been that he was led to it partly by the fact—though he was quite unconscious of it—that there was something similar in the home relations of these two men?

For Mr. Kingsley was also a widower; and it was his little only daughter who was pressing her tiny nose against the window-pane, and trying to guess how many people would go by the gate before daddy set it swinging and came up the drive.

Patsy's greeting was quite as loving and vigorous as the one the "twinses" gave their father every day. The slippers warming at the fire were elegant braided ones, bound round with velvet. Well! what of that? It was the love that thought of putting them there which made them so comfortable; and so, in that respect, Gull's were quite as good to wear as Mr. Kingsley's.

When the two were comfortably settled, Patsy began to rummage in all daddy's pockets.

"It's Christmas present night!" she cried. "Where's my little yellow money?"

Mr. Kingsley felt in his pockets with a musing air.

"I don't know what my little maid will say," he said at last, producing four half-crowns; "but I have no nice half-sovereign for her to-night—only these big ugly white things. It is true they will buy quite as many toys. And I might have had 'the yellow money,' only now, I expect, it is turned into shoeleather."

At the opening of this speech Patsy's face had borne an expression of disgust and disappointment; but before it was finished, it changed to one of undisguised interest.

"Oh! I'm sure you've been in a fairy tale to-day, daddy! You know I just love fairy stories. Do begin at once, before nurse comes. Tell me about it quickly—do, please."

And so, out of the materials that Gull had given him, Mr. Kingsley pleased his little daughter by weaving a wonderful modern fairy story. He had rather a talent that way, and had learnt by experience the kind of stories that the little ones like best. This time his narrative was "truer" than he knew; and Patsy acknowledged, when it was done, that it was "the nicest and beautifullest that she had heard for a long time."

And while Patsy's father was telling the story in his way, another version of it was being repeated again and again to the twins, high up in that old London house.

They were never tired of hearing it, never tired of asking questions; and all the time the feeling of gratitude in their father's heart—which had been like a little seed, planted there by the kind words and gift of Mr.