ed by a quivering of lips and more insistent tugs at his
pockets. It flashed upon him--out of some dim memory--that children
liked surprises discovered unexpectedly in some one's pockets. Was
this why they had searched him out? He found himself frantically
wishing that he had something stowed away somewhere for them. His
hands followed theirs into all the numerous pockets he possessed;
trousers, coat, and vest were searched twice over; they were even
turned inside out in the last hope of disclosing just one surprise.

"I should think," said the President, addressing himself, "that a man
might keep something pleasant in empty pockets. What are pockets for,
anyway?"

The children shook their heads sorrowfully.

"Wouldn't to-morrow do?" he suggested, hopefully; but there was no
response from the children, and the weight that had been settling down
upon him, in the region of his chest, noticeably increased. He tried
to shake it off, it was so depressing--like the accruing misfortune of
some pending event.

"Don't shake," said a voice behind him; "that isn't your misfortune.
You will only shake it off on the children, and it's time enough for
them to bear it when they wake up in the morning and find out--"

"Find out what?" The President asked it fearfully.

"Find out--find out--" droned the voice, monotonously.

The President sat up very straight in his chair. "The children--the
children." He remembered now--they were the children from the
incurable ward at Saint Margaret's.

He sank back with a feeling of great helplessness, and closed his eyes
again. And there he sat, immovable, his finger still marking his place
in the report of the United Charities.

The Oldest Trustee sat alone, knitting comforters for the Preventorium
patients. Like many another elderly person, her usual retiring hour
was later than that of the younger members of her household,
undoubtedly due to the frequent cat-naps snatched from the evening.

The Oldest Trustee had a habit of knitting the day's events in with her
yarn. What she had done and said and heard were all thought over again
to the rhythmic click of her needles. And the results at the end of
the evening were usually a finished comforter and a comfortable
feeling. This night, however, the knitting lagged and the thoughts
were unaccountably dissatisfying; she could not even settle down to a
cat-nap with the habitual serenity.

"I don't know why I should feel disturb