e!
don't you see you have frightened them? You are not a fitting spectacle
for such sweet-eyed darlings. They do well to drop the shade, to shut
out the darkness, and the dim, gesticulating phantom. Flit on! 'Tis
their father they are looking for, coming home to them with gifts from
the city.

But he does not flit. When, presently, they lift a corner of the shade
to peep out, they see him still standing there, spectral in the gloom.
He is waiting for them to open the door! He thinks they have quitted the
window for that purpose! Ah! here comes the father, and they are glad.

He comes hurrying from the cars under his umbrella, which is braced
against the gale and shuts out from his eyes the sight of the
unsheltered wretch. And he is hastily entering his door, which is opened
to him by the eager children, when they scream alarm; and looking over
his shoulder, he perceives, following at his heels, the fright. He is
one of your full-blooded, solid men; but he is startled.

"What do you want?" he cries, and lifts the threatening umbrella.

"I'm hungry," says the intruder, with a ghastly glare, still advancing.

He stands taller in his tattered shoes than the solid gentleman in his
boots; and those long, lean, claw-like hands act as if anxious to clutch
something. Papa thinks it is his throat.

"By heavens! and do you mean to"--And he prepares to charge umbrella.

"You may!" answers the wretch, with perfect sincerity, presenting his
ragged bosom to the blow.

The lord of the castle lowers his weapon. The children huddle behind
him, hushing their screams.

"Go in, Minnie! In, all of you! Tell Stephen to come here,--quick!"

The children scamper. And the florid, prosperous parent and the gaunt
and famishing pauper are alone, confronting each other by the light of
the shining hall-lamp.

"I'm cold," says the latter,--"and wet," with an aguish shiver.

"I should think so!" cries the gentleman, recovering from his alarm, and
getting his breath again, as he hears Stephen's step behind him. "Stand
back, can't you?" (indignantly). "Don't you see you are dripping on the
carpet?"

"I'm so tired!"

"Well! you needn't rub yourself against the door, if you are! Don't you
see you are smearing it? What are you roaming about in this way for,
intruding into people's houses?"

"Please, Sir, I don't know," is the soft, sad answer; and Fessenden's is
meekly taking himself away.

"It's too bad, though!" says the man, relenting