As he reached the sidewalk, Mr. Broadstreet turned and looked after the car. Whether it was the light from the street lamp, or the broad flood of radiance that poured out from the windows of the toy-shop just beyond, he could not tell; but the rear platform was illuminated by a pure, steady glow, in the very center of which stood the conductor, smiling and waving his hand. No sign of a Shadow; not a bit of it. Mr. Broadstreet looked carefully about him, but it was nowhere to be seen. Even the snow, which all this time continued to fall without interruption, seemed to fill the air with tiny lamps of soft light.

Ah, that toy-shop! Such heaps of blocks, and marbles, and sleds; such dolls with eyes that would wink upside down, exactly like a hen’s; such troops of horses and caravans of teams; such jangling of toy pianos, and tooting of toy horns, and shrieking of toy whistles, (these instruments being anxiously tested by portly papas and mammas, apparently to be sure of a good bargain, but really for the fun of the thing); such crowds of good-natured people, carrying canes, and drums, and hoop-sticks under their arms, taking and giving thrusts of these articles and being constantly pushed and pulled and jammed and trodden upon with the most delightful good humor; such rows of pretty girls behind the counters, now climbing to the summits of Ararats where innumerable Noah’s Arks, of all sizes, had been stranded; all these girls being completely used up with the day’s work, of course, but more cheerful and willing than ever, bless them! such scamperings to and fro of cash-boys, and diving into the crowd, and emergings in utterly unexpected places—were never seen before in this quiet old city.

Mr. Broadstreet embarked on the current, and with an unconsciously benevolent smile on his round face was borne half-way down the store before he could make fast to a counter.

“What can I do for you, sir?” If the girlish voice was brisk and businesslike it was at the same time undeniably pleasant.

Mr. Broadstreet started. “Why, I want some presents; Christmas presents, you know,” he said, looking down into the merry brown eyes.

“Boy or girl, sir, and how old?”

Mr. Broadstreet was fairly taken aback by her promptness. His wife always did the Christmas shopping.

“Let me see,” he began hurriedly; “two girls and a—no, I mean two boys—why, bless me,” he went on in great confusion, as her low laugh rang out among the woolly sheep with which she happened to be surrounded, “I’ve really forgotten. That is—Oh, I see; you needn’t laugh,” and Mr. Broadstreet’s own smile broadened as he spoke, “they’re not mine. I never heard of them until five minutes ago, and I declare I don’t remember which is which. At any rate there are three of them, all under seven.”

“How would a lamb do for the oldest? Real wool and natural motion?” in proof of which latter assertion she set all their heads nodding in the most violent manner, until it made her customers quite dizzy to look at them. Mr. Broadstreet picked out the biggest one. “He seems to—ah—bow more vigorously than the rest,” he said.

The girl then proceeded to display various toys and gay-colored picture-books, Mr. Broadstreet assenting to the choice in every instance, until a large, compact bundle lay on the counter, plainly marked,

“Mr. Tryson, Conductor. To be called for.”

As the lawyer was leaving the store, he remembered something, and turned back.

“I forgot,” he said, “I wanted to buy a tree”—

“Just round the corner,” interrupted the brown-eyed girl over her shoulder, without looking at him. She was already deep in the confidence of the next customer, who had told her the early history of two of her children, and was now proceeding to the third. Mr. Broadstreet buttoned up his coat collar, and stepped out once more into the storm. A few moments’ walk brought him to a stand where the trees were for sale. And what a spicy, fragrant, delicious, jolly place it was, to be sure! The sidewalk was flanked right and left with rows upon rows of spruce, pine and fir trees, all gayly decked with tufts of snow; every doorway, too, was full of these trees, as if they had huddled in there to get out of the storm. Here and there were great boxes overflowing with evergreen and holly boughs, many of which the dealers had taken out and stuck into all sorts of crannies and corners of their stands, so that the glossy leaves and scarlet berries glistened in the flaring light of the lamps. Wreaths of every size and description—some made of crispy gray moss, dotted with bright amaranths, some of holly—were threaded upon sticks like beads, and were being constantly pulled off and sold to the muffled customers who poured through the narrow passageway in a continuous stream.

“All brightness,” thought Mr. Broadstreet, “and no Shadow this time.”

None? What was that black ugly-looking stain on the fallen snow, extending from his own feet to one of the rude wooden stands where traffic was busiest? Mr. Broadstreet started, and scrutinized it sharply. He soon discovered the outline of Christmas Present. Beyond a doubt it was the Shadow again.

III

It must be confessed that for a moment Mr. Broadstreet felt slightly annoyed. Why should that Thing be constantly starting up and darkening his cheerful mood? It was bad enough that the Shadow should exist, without intruding its melancholy length upon people who were enjoying Christmas Eve. He might have indulged in still further discontent, when he noticed the head of the Shadow-figure droop as in sadness. He remembered the kind Ghost’s grief, and upbraided himself for his hardness of heart.

“Forgive me,” he said, half aloud. “I was wrong. I forgot. I will, please God, brighten this spot and turn away the Shadow!”

Without further delay he advanced through the gloomy space until he reached the box, upon which a large lot of holly wreaths and crosses were displayed. He soon completed the purchase of a fine thick fir, and sent it, together with a roll of evergreens, to the toy-shop, directed like the parcel to the conductor.

The owner of the stand was a jovial, bright-faced young fellow, and it was evident that to him Christmas meant only gladness and jollity. But the Shadow still rested upon Mr. Broadstreet and all the snowy sidewalk about him. He was thoroughly puzzled to find its object, and had almost begun to consider the whole affair a delusion, when his eyes fell upon an odd little man, standing in the shelter of the trees, and visibly shaking with the cold, although his coat was tightly buttoned about his meager form, and his old hat pulled down over his ears. As he saw the portly lawyer looking at him he advanced timidly and touched his hat.

“Can I carry a bundle for you,