"I don't want to," pouted George.

"All right," said Mrs. Gerhardt, "maybe to-morrow you'll be without a fire, and then what?"

They went back to the house, but George's conscience was too troubled to

allow him to consider the case as closed.

"Bass, you come too," he called to his elder brother when he was inside.

"Go where?" said Bass.

"To get some coal."

"No," said the former, "I guess not. What do you take me for?"

"Well, then, I'll not," said George, with an obstinate jerk of his head.

"Why didn't you get it up this afternoon?" questioned his brother sharply;

"you've had all day to do it."

"Aw, I did try," said George. "We couldn't find enough. I can't get any when there ain't any, can I?"

"I guess you didn't try very hard," said the dandy.

"What's the matter now?" asked Jennie, who, coming in after having stopped at the grocer's for her mother, saw George with a solemn pout on

his face.

"Oh, Bass won't go with me to get any coal?"

"Didn't you get any this afternoon?"

"Yes," said George, "but ma says I didn't get enough."

"I'll go with you," said his sister. "Bass will you come along?"

"No," said the young man, indifferently, "I won't." He was adjusting his necktie and felt irritated.

"There ain't any," said George, "unless we get it off the cars. There wasn't any cars where I was."

"There are, too," exclaimed Bass.

"There ain't," said George.

"Oh don't quarrel," said Jennie. "Get the baskets and let's go right now before it gets too late."

The other children, who had a fondness for their big sister got out the

implements of supply—Veronica a basket, Martha and William buckets,

and George a big clothes-basket, which he and Jennie were to fill and

carry between them. Bass, moved by his sister's willingness and the little regard he still maintained for her, now made a suggestion.

"I'll tell you what you do, Jen," he said. "You go over there with the kids to Eighth Street and wait around those cars. I'll be along in a minute.

When I come by don't any of you pretend to know me. Just you say,

'Mister won't you please throw us some coal down?' and then I'll get up

on the cars and pitch off enough to fill the baskets. D'ye understand?"

"All right," said Jennie, very much pleased.

Out into the snowy night they went, and made their way to the railroad

tracks. At the intersection of the street and the broad railroad yard were many heavily laden cars of bituminous coal newly backed in. All of the

children gathered within the shadow of one. While they were standing

there, waiting the arrival of their brother, the Washington Special arrived, a long, fine train with several of the new style drawing-room cars, the big plate-glass windows shining and the passengers looking out from the

depths of their comfortable chairs. The children instinctively drew back

as it thundered past.

"Oh, wasn't it long?" said George.

"Wouldn't I like to be a brakeman, though," sighed William.

Jennie, alone, kept silent, but to her particularly the suggestion of travel and comfort had appealed. How beautiful life must be for the rich!

Sebastian now appeared in the distance, a mannish spring in his stride,

and with every evidence that he took himself seriously. He was of that

peculiar stubbornness and determination that had the children failed to

carry out his plan of procedure he would have gone deliberately by and

refused to help them at all.

Martha, however, took the situation as it needed to be taken, and piped

out childishly, "Mister, won't you please throw us down some coal?"

Sebastian stopped abruptly, and looked sharply at them as though he were

really a stranger, exclaimed "Why, certainly," and proceeded to climb up on the car, from whence he cast down with remarkable celerity more than

enough chunks to fill their baskets. Then as though not caring to linger

any longer amid such plebeian company, he hastened across the network

of tracks and was lost to view.

On their way home they encountered another gentleman, this time a real

one, with high hat and distinguished cape coat, whom Jennie immediately

recognised. This was the honourable Senator himself, newly returned

from Washington, and anticipating a very unprofitable Christmas. He had

arrived upon the express which had enlisted the attention of the children, and was carrying his light grip for the pleasure of it to the hotel. As he passed he thought that he recognised Jennie.

"Is that you, Jennie?" he said, and paused to be more certain.

The latter, who had discovered him even more quickly than he had her,

exclaimed, "Oh, there is Mr. Brander!" Then, dropping her end of the basket, with a caution to the children to take it right home, she hurried away in the opposite direction.

The Senator followed, vainly calling three or four times "Jennie! Jennie!"

Losing hope of overtaking her, and suddenly recognising, and thereupon

respecting, her simple, girlish shame, he stopped, and turning back,

decided to follow the children. Again he felt that same sensation which he seemed always to get from this girl— the far cry between her estate and

his. It was something to be a Senator to-night, here where these children were picking coal. What could the joyous holiday of the morrow hold for

them? He tramped along sympathetically, an honest lightness coming into

his step, and soon he saw them enter the gateway of the low cottage.

Crossing the street, he stood in the weak shade of the snow-laden trees.

The light was burning with a yellow glow in a rear window. All about was

the white snow. In the woodshed he could hear the voices of the children, and once he thought he detected the form of Mrs. Gerhardt. After a time

another form came shadowlike through the side gate. He knew who it

was. It touched him to the quick, and he bit his lip sharply to suppress any further show of emotion. Then he turned vigorously on his heel and

walked away.

The chief grocery of the city was conducted by one Manning, a stanch

adherent of Brander, and one who felt honoured by the Senator's

acquaintance. To him at his busy desk came the Senator this same night.

"Manning," he said, "could I get you to undertake a little work for me this evening?"

"Why, certainly, Senator, certainly," said the grocery-man. "When did you get back? Glad to see you. Certainly."

"I want you to get everything together that would make a nice Christmas for a family of eight—father and mother and six children—Christmas

tree, groceries, toys—you know what I mean."

"Certainly, certainly, Senator."

"Never mind the cost now. Send plenty of everything. I'll give you the address," and he picked up a note-book to write it.

"Why, I'll be delighted, Senator," went on Mr. Manning, rather affected himself. "I'll be delighted. You always were generous."

"Here you are, Manning," said the Senator, grimly, from the mere necessity of preserving his senatorial dignity. "Send everything at once, and the bill to me."

"I'll be delighted," was all the astonished and approving grocery- man could say.

The Senator passed out, but remembering the old people, visited a