No one spoke on the way home. The Judge and Titus on the back seat of the sleigh scarcely took their eyes from the serious, little face of the strangely pale, quiet child opposite.

He was not sleepy now. They could see the two large brown eyes shining with the steady light of two solemn stars.

When they reached their home on the avenue, Titus politely assisted the child to alight, and took his hand as they went up the long steps.

Higby had gone to bed, and the parlor-maid’s face as she opened the door was a study. Nobody explained matters to her, and in a complete state of mystification she was sent to request Mrs. Blodgett’s immediate presence in the parlor.

Titus had lifted the little stranger to a chair, and was drawing off his cap and mittens.

“Mrs. Blodgett,” said the Judge, when that good woman appeared, “I wish you to take charge of this child. Put him to sleep at once. If he is nervous, some one must sleep in the room with him. Don’t give him a bath to-night. He is very tired. In the morning dress him and bring him down to breakfast.”

Mrs. Blodgett, in amazement, looked down at the shabby child. Who was this? She was not fond of children, except her own—and poor and dirty children she detested.

However, a little hand was stealing into hers. A tired, unhappy face was looking trustfully up at her, seeking the kind glances of a third mother.

Mrs. Blodgett would have been less than a woman if she could have resisted. This was probably some child who was here only for the night.

“Yes, sir,” she said, respectfully, and with the little boy clinging closely to her, instead of bestowing glances on the Judge and Titus, she went upstairs.

The Judge and his grandson did not talk much that night. The Judge slowly sipped his glass of hot milk and then went to bed. He lived a quiet life, and the adventure of the evening had given him many problems to think over.

Titus was quite excited. Ordinarily the approach of Christmas Day did not stir him very much, but now that there was another young person in the house he felt his pulse quickened. This strange boy must have some presents. Should he give him some of his new ones, or would old ones be sufficient? He would consult his grandfather about it. He had a lot of old toys up in the attic. To-morrow morning he would ask Higby to get them down, or, better still, he would take the youngster up there. Poor little chap—how mean to make him work, and with some hitherto unknown generous impulses animating his sturdy young breast Titus fell asleep.

He was late for breakfast the next morning. His grandfather had already had prayers, the servants had scattered to their various employments, and Higby was just taking in a second supply of coffee to the dining room.

“B-b-beg pardon, grandfather,” said Titus, hurrying in after the man. “I-I-I fell asleep again after Higby knocked at my door. M-merry Christmas and many of them!” and seating himself at the table he looked around in great approbation.

The long handsome room was flooded with sunlight.

“G-g-good old sun,” ejaculated Titus, approvingly. “I-I-I can dress better when he shines on me. I-I-I hate the dark, early part of the morning. W-where’s the child, sir?”

The Judge looked toward the door. Higby was just throwing it open for Mrs. Blodgett and her charge.

Then an amusing scene took place. In the doorway stood Mrs. Blodgett, and a pale, pretty little girl dressed in a dainty white cloth dress trimmed with gold braid.

The Judge and Titus looked at Mrs. Blodgett. They both knew that she possessed a little granddaughter of whom she was inordinately proud. This child sometimes came to the house, and she often presented her to the Judge for a word or a kind glance.

Just now he gave both—“A merry Christmas, little one. Come here and get an orange. Mrs. Blodgett, how is the boy this morning?”

Mrs. Blodgett pushed the child, who did not seem inclined to leave her, toward the Judge, then she said in a puzzled way, “The boy, sir?”

“Yes—the boy I brought home last night,” replied the Judge.

“The boy, sir,” she repeated in amazement, while an additional flood of color swept over her rubicund face. “There weren’t no boy, sir.”

The Judge gazed patiently at her. Mrs. Blodgett was getting older. He had noticed several times lately that she seemed a little stupid and did not understand quickly what was said to her.

“You surely remember the little boy I brought home with me last evening?”

Mrs. Blodgett gazed up at the ceiling, down at the floor, under the table, and behind her out into the hall as if seeking a lost child.

Then she said, faintly, “As I am a mortal woman, sir, I didn’t see no boy, sir. He must have slipped off on the doorstep. I know these poor children. They’re sneaky as foxes.”

“No, he did not slip away,” said the Judge, with a quiet smile. “I brought him in and gave him to you.”

Mrs. Blodgett’s face was purple, and she turned to Higby in quiet exasperation. “Now, if you’d been about, instead of bein’ in bed, I’d have said it was some of them queer tricks of yours.”

“Do not make a scapegoat of Higby,” said the Judge, decidedly, “but let your memory go back to last evening. This is a serious matter, Mrs. Blodgett. I had a young boy in my charge. I am answerable for his safety. I brought him in the house and gave him into your care. Now, what has become of him?”

“Lawks-a-massy!” exclaimed Mrs. Blodgett, joining her hands in embarrassment and staring wildly about her, “Is it you, Judge Sancroft, speakin’, and am I, Dorinda Blodgett, a-listenin’?”

“You seem to be listening,” remarked the Judge, dryly, “but you certainly are not understanding. Please go away and search your memory and the house for that boy. Titus, what is the matter with you?”

“Are you crazy, too?” the Judge felt like adding, but fortunately for himself he did not do so. While he had been speaking the child had been creeping shyly toward him, and Titus’s eyes were glued on her. The Judge turned his eyes quickly on the little girl. Now that he examined her more closely he saw that this was no offspring from the Blodgett stock. Where had he seen before that thin band of curls, those big, solemn eyes?

“Sir,” Mrs. Blodgett was sniffling miserably, while she made a ball of her pocket handkerchief, “you aint never doubted my word afore. It’s time for me to quit your service.”

“I am not doubting your word,” he said, absently, “only—” and he again stared at the child.

“Where did you get this little girl?” he asked, shortly.

“’Tis the same little girl you brought in last evenin’, sir, the same little girl what weren’t accompanied by no boy, sure as I’m alive. Jennie, she saw her—ask her if there were a boy too.”

“Upon my word!” exclaimed the Judge, bringing his hand down on the table. “Upon my word!”

Titus’s eyes were absolutely sticking out of his head. Then he began to cough, then to laugh, then to choke.

“Sir,” said Mrs. Blodgett, uneasily, “she were dressed something like a boy outside, but inside was such a miserable little frock that I took the liberty of putting on her one of my grandchild, Mary Ann’s, outgrown party ones that I’m goin’ to give to an orphan asylum.”

Still the Judge did not speak, and Mrs. Blodgett went on. “’Pears to me, now I think of it, you did tell me to take this little boy an’ put him to bed. I didn’t pay no attention, sir. As much as I honors you, I couldn’t think to change my Maker’s decrees by makin’ a little girl a little boy.”

“O, grandfather!” gasped Titus, half under the table. “O! O! grandfather!”

The Judge’s face relaxed, then he looked about him and began to smile. Then he laughed—laughed so heartily that Mrs. Blodgett, who was no simpleton, and who was beginning to understand, joined in. Higby, delighted to find no share of mismanagement attributed to him, snickered agreeably, and even the maids who had just come up from the kitchen and were going to their work in different parts of the house, hearing the sound of enjoyable laughter, echoed it light-heartedly.

“This is a good Christmas joke on you and me, Titus,” said the Judge at last, putting his handkerchief to his face to wipe his eyes. “It is said that one finds what one looks for. We were looking for a boy, and we persuaded ourselves that we had found one.”

“Did that woman try to deceive you, sir?” asked Titus, drawing his head from under the table and casting a comical glance at his grandfather, then at the little girl.

“No, she had the appearance of an honest woman, but her deafness prevented her from hearing us fully. Now that I think of it, she did not once say that the child was a boy. We jumped to that conclusion. Why did you not tell us what you were?” and he turned to the child.

She gave him a quiet smile that assured him that she had not intentionally deceived him, and then he saw that her mouth was parched and open, and that her lips moved slightly as she looked beyond him toward the table.

“You are hungry,” he said, courteously. “Higby, lift her to her seat.”

The child looked over her shoulder at Mrs. Blodgett. She wished to sit down at the table with her, and with a deeply gratified smile the housekeeper stepped forward and arranged her in her chair. That glance would be set down to the little stranger’s credit.

“I have to beg your pardon, Mrs. Blodgett,” said the Judge. “There was a misunderstanding all round. This little girl is an orphan. I offered to find a home for her, thinking that she was a boy because she was dressed like one. She has probably had on the borrowed garments of a little boy belonging to the kind woman who has taken care of her.”

“It’s all right, sir,” said Mrs. Blodgett. “I might a-remembered what you said. I call back now that you told me plainly she was a boy, but, as I said afore, you can’t change nater,” and with another gratified smile she waddled away.

Meanwhile Titus, having recovered, or nearly recovered, himself, for he found it necessary to drop his napkin on the floor every two minutes and to be a long time in picking it up, stared almost uninterruptedly at the little girl.

She was eating an orange that the Judge had given her, eating it prettily and quietly and without splashing the juice on her white gown, and casting meantime curious and searching glances about the room.

The boy or girl problem disturbed the Judge somewhat. He could not get it out of his head that she was a boy. It was extremely disappointing that she was not, for now she would be no companion for Titus.

“Child,” he asked, kindly, “what is your name?”

“Bethany,” she replied, in a low voice, “little Bethany. My mamma was big Bethany.”

“Little Bethany,” said the Judge, “that is a nice name. Now, what are you going to have? Will you eat mush, cornmeal mush?”

“If you please, sir.”

“Higby, give her some—put plenty of cream on it—Indian corn is what our ancestors here in New England raised and gave to their children. We don’t eat enough of it nowadays.”

Titus, stricken with sudden shyness, would not talk to the child. He knew nothing about girls, and did not care for them, so the Judge felt it his duty to keep up a conversation.

“How old are you?” he asked.

“Seven, sir,” she replied.

“Do you like that mush?” he continued, politely.

She paused with spoon uplifted, “It is simply delicious, sir.”

Titus got up and took a turn to the sideboard. His grandfather eyed him warningly. He had laughed enough.

Suddenly the clock struck ten, and as it struck the child lost her quietly contented air and, blushing painfully, counted the strokes as they rang out.

“O, sir,” she cried, with a guilty start and laying down her spoon, “I’m an hour late. I must get to work—the boss will be so angry.”

The Judge stared at her. The light died out of his own eyes, an iron hand gripped his heart.

In the face of that tiny child, in her start, her fear of consequences, he suddenly felt the pain of the world. Outraged childhood with its bleeding wounds stood before him.

A great lump rose in his throat. For a minute it seemed as if his agony could not be borne.

He groaned heavily, then he threw up his head. “Child!” he said, harshly, “your slavery is over.”

His tones were severe, and the child was frightened. She slipped from her seat at the table and stood pale and shrinkingly before him. “Sir, I want to go back to Mrs. Tingsby.”

Titus came to the rescue. “But you haven’t fed your mouse,” he said, kindly, and with the cunning of one young thing in understanding another. “And we’ve got some prime German cheese. Higby—”

The old man went to the big mahogany sideboard and presently came back with some crumbs of cheese.

The little girl’s thoughts were turned in a new direction. Putting her hand in her little bosom she drew out the marvelous handkerchief, produced the ghost of the mouse, fed it, and put it back again. Then Titus skillfully drew her toward his grandfather’s study. “About eleven o’clock on Christmas morning we always have our presents in here.”

It was a pretty sight to see them go down the hall—the dark boy and the pretty little white girl, so much younger than he.

The Judge followed closely behind them, and as they reached the study door and paused, he paused too.

The little girl had caught sight of Princess Sukey sitting on her basket. She stopped short, caught her breath, stepped close to Titus and remained motionless.

“W-w-what’s the matter?” asked the boy, bluntly.

“O, hush,” murmured the child, in an ecstasy, “don’t speak, don’t move, or she will vanish.”

“I-i-indeed she won’t—she is grandfather’s bird.”

“Then she is no ghost,” said Bethany, drawing a long sigh of relief.

“Ghost, no. Watch her dance when I tickle her feet,” and he stepped forward to the hearthrug.

The princess got out of her basket when she saw them coming and, bowing a great many times, said, “Rookety cahoo!”

“H-h-happy Christmas,” replied Titus, politely; “lots of seeds and the best of health. Now dance for the little girl,” and gently touching her claws he caused her to spin round and round.

Finally she flew over their heads to the Judge’s shoulder.

“O, if I could touch her,” said the child, and she shivered in the intensity of her emotion.

The Judge sat down and put the pigeon on the arm of his easy-chair.

“Come here, little girl,” he said, “and stroke her.”

Bethany shyly approached and held out a forefinger to the Judge.

With another sharp pang at his heart he felt that the tiny finger was roughened by work. Then guiding it to the white head under the hood of feathers he looked away from the bird and out the window. God helping him, this child should never toil again.

When Bethany felt her hand touching the velvety feathers she gave a long shudder of delight.

After a time, when the princess had impatiently thrown off the little caressing finger, Bethany threw up her hands to the ceiling. “I have seen them in the street, I have called to them, but they never let me touch them. I think they thought I was a cat.”

“W-w-what do you mean—pigeons?” asked Titus.

“Yes, birds—pretty birds of the air. I love them, but they don’t love me. Only dogs, and cats, and rats, and mice love me.”

“H-h-hello!” exclaimed Titus, “there goes eleven. N-n-now we’ll have the presents.”

The Judge rang the bell, and the servants, headed by Higby and Mrs. Blodgett, filed into the room.

Bethany’s serious brown eyes took in every detail of the scene. The presentation of the good-sized parcels done up in white paper, the untying of strings, the exclamations and expressions of gratitude, all belonged to a world that she had never entered before.

Fur-lined gloves, mufflers, fur capes, and warm dresses for the maids, a dressing-gown for Higby, beautifully bound books and a new watch for Titus, were all spread before the eyes of the astonished child, and she surveyed the various gifts without a suspicion of envy or jealousy. The Judge saw this by her transparent face, and with a gesture he told Titus to give her a small box of candy that lay unnoticed among his many presents.

The boy hastened to give it to her.

“For me,” she ejaculated, her now pink face growing red, “for Bethany?”

“Y-y-yes, for Bethany,” said the boy, good-humoredly.

“O, charm of novelty,” reflected the Judge, and he looked round the room. He had as good a set of servants as there was in the city. They were as grateful as they could be to him for his kindly remembrance of them, but it was the gratitude of custom, of anticipation. They knew he would give them handsome presents; any other well-to-do and well disposed employer would have done the same, but this child—he looked at her again.

She was in a quiet rapture. “O, the cunning candies,” she murmured, “each one in a little dress; O, the pretty pink flounces.”

“Why don’t you eat some?” inquired the Judge.

She touched them daintily with the tips of her fingers. “O, sir, I could not eat them. I shall keep them forever and ever and ever.”

“But they will spoil; they were made to eat.”

“Would you like one, sir?” she asked, anxiously.

“No, thank you.”

She gazed seriously into the box and began to count one, two, three, four, and so on. “Sir,” she said at last, “there are just enough to go twice round for Mrs. Tingsby’s children and the boarders.”

The Judge smiled. She was not a selfish child.

“I could spare one for the dear bird with the overcoat on and its collar turned up,” she said, sweetly.

The Judge looked puzzled.

“S-s-she means Sukey,” explained Titus.

“Thank you, little girl; pigeons do not eat candy.”

“Then I think you had better take one,” she said, shyly, coming toward him with the box outstretched in her hand.

O, sweet little childish face and childish grace!—and the judge’s eyes grew moist. Once years and years ago God had given him two little daughters—two dream children, it seemed to him now, so many were the years that had passed since he laid the little childish forms away in a country churchyard. O, children, so long lamented, yet now almost forgotten.

“Little girl,” he said, gently, “I once had two small daughters not as old as you.”

Bethany looked over her shoulder, as if he were speaking of some one present.

“What do they look like?” she asked, wistfully. “Are their faces white like mine, and have they thin brown curls?”

“My child, they have been in their graves for many a day.”

“But their ghosts,” she said, with sweet impatience, “you see them, don’t you?”

“Do you believe in ghosts?” asked the Judge, quietly.

Bethany pursed up her lips. “The air is quite, quite full of them, sir. Every night my mamma stands by the foot of my bed. Last night she waited so patiently until I was undressed. When I was all alone in the room she came forward, she sat down beside me, she put her hand on my forehead. She said, ‘Little daughter, do not be lonely, I am with you.’ Do not your little girls sit beside you at night?”

“No, dear,” said the Judge, very gently.

“How queer,” and Bethany gazed at him as if he were a new and strange kind of puzzle. Then she said, “Please tell me what they were like. Perhaps I will see them.”

“What an imagination,” murmured the Judge, then he said aloud, “Some other time, child.”

Bethany possessed an extraordinary amount of tact for a child of her age, and instead of pursuing the subject she looked round the room. The servants were wrapping up their gifts preparatory to taking them away. Titus was deep in one of the volumes of travel his grandfather had given him.

“Sir,” she said, suddenly turning to the Judge. “There are other ghosts besides children and mothers.”

The Judge quietly bowed his head in token of acquiescence. He would indulge her humor.

“There is my mouse ghost,” she said, touching her breast; “then there is the ghost of the spotted dog with yellow eyes.”

“Indeed,” remarked the Judge, highly amused and interested, “and who was the spotted dog?”

“He is a ghost,” said the child, earnestly, “but he really isn’t dead. He ran away. I can see him as plain as I see these candies,” and she tightly shut her eyes for a few instants.

Suddenly opening them, she exclaimed, “There he is, running with a bone—quick! catch him. I should like to tell him that Bethany still loves him.”

As she spoke she started dramatically forward and extended her hands.

“W-w-what’s the matter?” asked Titus, lifting his head.

“My spotted dog,” she cried; “my dear spotted dog. Take care that he doesn’t bite your clothes. He is a very peculiar dog.”

The servants in alarm thought that a real dog had entered the room by the open door and began to tumble over each other.

Higby, on account of his infirmity of tongue, tried to open his mouth as little as possible in the presence of his employer, but now in his fright he called out, “W-w-where is the d-d-dog?”

“There,” exclaimed the little girl, “right between your feet. Do catch him for me, but take care, for he hates old men, and might give your coat a snap.”

Higby caught his foot in his highly prized dressing-gown that he was carrying across his arm and stumbled against Titus’s heap of books. He sent them flying; then, to recover himself he clutched one of the maids, who shrieked with fright.

The Judge carefully examined the child’s face. Had she called up the spotted dog in a spirit of mischief? No, for there were tears in her eyes.

“You have frightened him away,” she said, sadly. “He has run outdoors. He may never come back,” and, sitting down, she buried her little face in her hands.

Higby tumbled out of the room. He believed that the spotted dog was there yet, hidden in some corner and waiting to bite him.