shall find to do, or cheering words you may have the power to speak.”

It said no more. Mr. Broadstreet, who, when a child, had often longed to peep behind a picture, found himself actually fulfilling his wish. As he drew nearer the printed page, he heard a dull roar, like surf beating upon a rocky coast. He advanced further, picking his way around the pile of poultry and vegetables and glistening holly upon which the Ghost sat enthroned. A moment more and the room vanished in utter blackness of night, the roar grew grander and deeper, until it throbbed in his ears like the diapason of a mighty organ, a fierce blast of snow-laden wind struck his bewildered face, the street-lamp upon the corner flickered feebly in a mist of flakes—he was standing before his own door, knee-deep in a snow-drift, and buffeted above, below, and on every side by the storm that was abroad that Christmas Eve.

II

As soon as Mr. Broadstreet recovered himself and cleared his eyes from the blinding snow, he saw a heavy, black Shadow on the sidewalk enveloping his own person and resting upon the figure of a man who had evidently just sheltered himself behind the high stone steps, for his footprints leading from the street were still quite fresh. As the man thrashed his arms and stamped vigorously, to start the blood through his benumbed feet, a bright button or two gleamed upon his breast through the cape of his greatcoat. Mr. Broadstreet now recognized him as the policeman whose beat it was, and whom he had occasionally favored with a condescending nod, as he came home late at night from the theater or the club. He had never addressed him by so much as a word, but now the Shadow was full upon him, and Mr. Broadstreet felt that here was his first opportunity.

“Good-evening, officer!” he shouted cheerily, through the storm. “Wish you a Merry Christmas to-morrow.”

“Thank you, sir; same to you,” replied the other, with a touch of the cap and a pleased glance at the great man. “Hard times for the boys to-night, though.”

“It is hard,” said Mr. Broadstreet compassionately. “And you’re rather cold, I suppose?” he added awkwardly, after a pause.

“Rather!”

“Why, bless me,” a bright thought striking him, “wouldn’t you like a cup of hot coffee, now?”

The officer looked up again, surprised. “I would that, sir, first-rate,” he answered heartily.

Mr. Broadstreet stepped to the side door and pressed the electric knob.

“Bring out a good cup of coffee for this man,” he said to the girl who answered the bell. “And, officer, buy the folks at home a trifle for me; Christmas, you know.” As he spoke, he put a big silver dollar into the astonished policeman’s hand, and at the same time the Shadow vanished, leaving the light from the bright, warm hall falling fairly upon the snow-covered cap and buttons.

A muffled roll and jingling of bells made themselves heard above the wind, and a street-car came laboring down the street through the heavy drifts. Mr. Broadstreet, without a thought as to the destination of the car, but impelled by some unseen force, clambered upon the rear platform. The conductor was standing like a snowman, covered with white from head to foot, collar up around his ears, and hands deep in his pockets. And the Shadow was there again. Broad and gloomy, it surrounded both conductor and passenger in its bleak folds.

“Tough night, sir,” remarked the former, presently.

“Yes, yes, it is, indeed,” replied Mr. Broadstreet, who was thinking what in the world he could give this man, except money. “And Christmas Eve, too!”

“That’s a fact,” said the conductor. “Just the luck of it, I say. Now to-morrow I get four hours lay-off in the afternoon, and my wife, she was planning to take the children and go to the play. But they’re none of ’em over strong, and ’t won’t do to take ’em out in this snow. Besides, like’s not ’twill storm all day.”

“Children?” exclaimed Mr. Broadstreet, seeing a way out of his difficulty; “how many?”

“Two girls and a boy, all under seven.”

“Got any Christmas presents for them?—don’t mind my asking.”

“Well, I’d just ’s lief show you what I have got. ’T ain’t much, you know, but then it’s somethin’.”

He stepped inside the door, laid aside his snowy mittens, and taking from the corner of the seat a small brown parcel, carefully removed the string and wrappings.

“There,” he said, with a sort of pleading pride in his eyes, “I guess these’ll please ’em some. ’Taint much, you know,” he added again, glancing at his passenger’s fur cap, as he displayed the presents on the car-seat.

A very red-cheeked and blue-eyed doll, with a placid countenance quite out of keeping with her arms; these members being so constructed as to occupy only two positions, one of which expressed unbounded astonishment, and the other gloomy resignation; a transparent slate, with a dim cow under the glass, and “fifteen cents,” plainly marked in lead pencil on one corner of the frame, and a rattle for the girl baby.

As the conductor held up these articles in his stiff, red fingers, turning the doll about so as to show her flaxen braid to the best advantage, and inducing the arms to take the positions alluded to, the Shadow crept away, and had well-nigh disappeared. But it returned again, thicker than ever, when he said, with a little choke in his voice, “I did mean to get ’em a little tree, with candles on it, and a picture-book or two; but our pay ain’t overmuch, and we had sickness, and—and”—he was very busy doing up the bundle, and very clumsy he must have been, too, for it was a long time before the wide-looped, single bow-knot was tied, and the parcel carefully put away again.

Mr. Broadstreet winked hard, and his eyes shone.

“How long before you pass here on the way back?” he asked.

“About thirty-five minutes it’ll take us to get round, sir, on account of the snow. It’s my last trip.”

“Very well. Now, conductor—ahem! what did you say your name was?”

“Tryson, sir; David Tryson.”

“Then, ahem! Mr. Tryson—just ring your bell when you reach the corner there, on the up trip; and dodge into that store where the lights are. You’ll find a bundle waiting for you. Good-night conduct—Mr. Tryson, and a Merry Christmas to you and yours!”

“Good-night, sir! God bless you, sir! Merry”—but his passenger was gone.