reat many times that day to
breathe on his purple hands. Still, he did not regret having lent his
mittens to William John--poor, pale, sickly little William John, who
had so few pleasures.

It was sunset when Bertie laid an armful of parcels down on the steps
of Doctor Forbes's handsome house. His back was turned towards the big
bay window at one side, and he was busy trying to warm his hands, so
he did not see the two small faces looking at him through the frosty
panes.

"Just look at that poor little boy, Amy," said the taller of the two.
"He is almost frozen, I believe. Why doesn't Caroline hurry and open
the door?"

"There she goes now," said Amy. "Edie, couldn't we coax her to let him
come in and get warm? He looks so cold." And she drew her sister out
into the hall, where the housekeeper was taking Bertie's parcels.

"Caroline," whispered Edith timidly, "please tell that poor little
fellow to come in and get warm--he looks very cold."

"He's used to the cold, I warrant you," said the housekeeper rather
impatiently. "It won't hurt him."

"But it is Christmas week," said Edith gravely, "and you know,
Caroline, when Mamma was here she used to say that we ought to be
particularly thoughtful of others who were not so happy or well-off as
we were at this time."

Perhaps Edith's reference to her mother softened Caroline, for she
turned to Bertie and said cordially enough, "Come in, and warm
yourself before you go. It's a cold day."

Bertie shyly followed her to the kitchen.

"Sit up to the fire," said Caroline, placing a chair for him, while
Edith and Amy came round to the other side of the stove and watched
him with friendly interest.

"What's your name?" asked Caroline.

"Robert Ross, ma'am."

"Oh, you're Mrs. Ross's nephew then," said Caroline, breaking eggs
into her cake-bowl, and whisking them deftly round. "And you're
Sampson's errand boy just now? My goodness," as the boy spread his
blue hands over the fire, "where are your mittens, child? You're never
out without mittens a day like this!"

"I lent them to William John--he hadn't any," faltered Bertie. He did
not know but that the lady might consider it a grave crime to be
mittenless.

"No mittens!" exclaimed Amy in dismay. "Why, I have three pairs. And
who is William John?"

"He is my cousin," said Bertie. "And he's awful sickly. He wanted to
go out to play, and he hadn't any mittens, so I lent him mine. I
didn't miss them--much."

"What k