  It was at precisely eight o’clock, on the evening of the twenty-fourth of December, that Mr. Broadstreet yawned, glanced at the time-piece, closed the book he had been reading, and stretched himself out comfortably in his smoking-chair before the cannel fire which snapped and rustled cosily in the broad grate. The book was “A Christmas Carol,” and the reader, familiar as he was with its pages, had been considerably affected by that portion relating to Tiny Tim, as well as cheered by the joyful notes with which the Carol ends. For some minutes he sat silently surveying the pattern on his slippers, and apparently working it out again on his own brow. Now, Mr. Broadstreet was not a man to act upon impulse. A lawyer in large and profitable practice, and a shrewd man of business as well, he was never known to do, say, or decide anything without deliberation. “Hold on a bit,” he would say to an eager client, “softly, softly, my friend, you’re too fast for me. Now, what did you say was done with the property?” and so on to the end of the story. If there was any money in the case, Mr. Broadstreet was pretty sure to draw it out, for the benefit of his clients, and, remotely of course, himself. “When I put my hand down,” he was fond of remarking, with significant gesture upon the office desk, “I never take it up again without something in it.” In the course of his long practice, aided by a series of fortunate speculations, he had amassed such a goodly sum that his name stood near the head of the list of “Our Prominent Taxpayers;” he drove a fine span of horses, and was free enough with his money, in a general way. That is, when some large philanthropic movement was on foot, Alonzo M. Broadstreet, Esq., was pretty sure to be down for a round sum. He paid his share in church and politics, and annually sent a check to the Board of Foreign Missions. He made it a rule, however, never to encourage pauperism by promiscuous almsgiving, and never tried a case or gave legal advice, for love. Poor people who called at his office for assistance always found him unaccountably busy, and street beggars had long since learned to skip his door on their morning basket-visits. To-night Mr. Broadstreet had picked up the “Carol” in a specially complacent mood. He had spent liberally in Christmas gifts for his wife and Notwithstanding the memory of his recent good luck, he continued, on this particular evening, of all evenings in the year, to knit his brows and give unmistakable evidence that some emotion or reflection, not altogether pleasant, was stirring him powerfully. “Nonsense!” said Mr. Broadstreet presently, half aloud, as if he were addressing some one in the center of the glowing coals. “Nonsense!” he repeated, looking hard at a grotesque, carved figure that supported the mantel: “I’m not like Scrooge. I give freely and I spend freely. That fire don’t look much like the one old Scrooge warmed his gruel over, does it now?” The marble figure making no answer to this appeal, but continuing his stony gaze, Mr. Broadstreet shifted his position again uneasily. “Don’t I give away hundreds of dollars every year to the Societies, and haven’t I left them a round ten thousand in my will? Won’t somebody mourn for me, eh?” But the carved lips replied never a word, only seeming to curl slightly as the firelight played upon them, thereby assuming such an unpleasantly scornful expression that Mr. Broadstreet began to feel more uncomfortable than ever. Rising hastily from his chair and throwing the book down upon the table, he walked on to the window, rubbed a little place clear upon the frosty pane, and looked out. The night was gloomy enough to make the plainest of homes seem cheery by contrast. Since morning the skies had been dully gray, so that every one who went out wore arctics and carried umbrellas, and was provoked because no storm came. At about the time when the sun might be supposed to be setting, somewhere behind that dismal wall of clouds, a few tiny, shivering flakes had come floating down or up, one could hardly tell which, and had mingled with the dust that, driven by the biting wind, had filled the air, and piled itself in little ridges along the sidewalk, and blinded the eyes of men and beasts throughout the dreary day. Before long the snow overcame the low-born friend with whom it had at first treacherously allied itself, laid it prostrate on the earth, and calling in all its forces rioted victoriously over the field. The storm now took full possession of the city, whitening roofs and pavements, muffling every footfall and wheel-rattle, filling the streets up to their slaty brims with whirling mists of sleety snow, and roaring furiously through the tree-tops and around corners. As Mr. Broadstreet gazed through his frosty loophole, with mind full of the story he had just finished, he almost fancied he could discern the shadowy forms of old Marley and his fellow-ghosts moaning and wringing their hands as they swept past in trailing white robes. He turned away with a half-shiver and once more ensconced himself in his warm easy chair, taking up the Carol as he did so, and turning its leaves carelessly until he came to a picture of the Ghost of Christmas Present. It was wonderfully well-drawn, following the text with great care, hitting off the idea of the jovial, holly-crowned Spirit to the very life. And then the heap of good things that lay in generous piles about the room! Mr. Broadstreet could almost catch a whiff of fragrance from the turkeys and geese and spicy boughs. Indeed, so strong was the illusion that he involuntarily glanced over his shoulder at the marble-topped table near by, half expecting to see an appetizing dish of eatables at his side. No one had entered, however, and the table was as usual, with only its album and gilt-mounted screen, flanked by a few books that were too choice to be hidden away on the library shelves. When he looked back at the picture in the book, he started and rubbed his eyes. He thought—but it could not have been possible—that the central figure on the page moved slightly; and he was positive that one of the Ghost’s arms, in the engraving, had been raised, while now both were at his side. Mr. Broadstreet turned back the leaf with some misgiving, and looked carefully behind it. Nothing but blank white paper. “H’m,” muttered Mr. Broadstreet to himself, “how a man’s fancy does play strange tricks with—Halloo!” He was once more glancing at the picture, when the jolly Ghost gave him an unmistakable wink. To say that the lawyer started, was astonished, struck dumb—would be mild. He sat staring at the page, not wholly believing his own eyes, and yet not liking to look upon such a—to say the least—peculiar picture. While he was in this bewildered state of mind a rich, jovial voice was heard, apparently at a great distance, and at the same time proceeding directly from the book he held in his hand; and—yes, no doubt about it—the Ghost’s bearded lips were moving. “Well?” said the Ghost of Christmas Present, still seeming very, very far off. “Well, sir?” stammered Mr. Broadstreet, in return. “You see I’m not dead yet, although some of your good people on this side of the water pay precious little attention to me.” “Why, really,” said Mr. Broadstreet, instinctively arguing the opposite side of the question, “as to that, I’m not so sure. Take Christmas cards, now. A few years ago they were unknown; now they’re as common as valentines.” “Oh, yes,” replied the Ghost, “I know. You see I have my room pretty well decorated with them.” The lawyer scrutinized the background of the picture more carefully, and, sure enough, the walls were covered with what at first seemed a rich sort of illuminated paper, but proved to be composed entirely of Christmas cards, many of which he had “Yes,” the Ghost went on, “the cards are well enough in their way, and so are the other displays and festivities of the day. But it is the spirit of Christmas that you need. Charity, charity in its good old sense: open hearts and kind deeds, with less thought of self-pleasing. While these dainty little gifts are being manufactured, purchased, sent, and thrown away, hundreds of people are at starvation’s door in your own city; thousands of people know little or nothing of the real meaning of the day, or of its Founder.” As the Ghost spoke, its voice seemed to come nearer, and at the same time the book grew so large and heavy that Mr. Broadstreet was fain to set it down upon the carpet. He no longer feared the Ghost, nor did it seem strange that it should converse with him in this manner. “Wherein are we deficient?” he asked eagerly. “Or what more can we do? The charitable institutions of Boston are among the best in the world, the sky is full of her church-steeples, her police and missionary forces are vigilant and effective in their work.” The Ghost of Christmas Present gave a toss to his long hair and beard. “How much have you done to carry the spirit of Christmastide beyond your own threshold? Who in this great city will cherish the day and love it more dearly for your warm human friendship and kindly act, until it symbolizes to them whatever is purest and merriest and holiest in life?” The Ghost’s voice, now grown very near, was rather sad than stern, and its eyes were fixed intently upon Mr. Broadstreet’s face. Mr. Broadstreet hesitated. With cross-examination he was familiar enough, but he did not relish the part of witness. So confused was he that he hardly noticed that book and picture were now so large that they quite filled the end of the room in which he was sitting, and seemed like another apartment opening out of his own. “I—I—hardly know,” he stammered. “Really, I’ve spent a good deal of money; my Christmas bills are always tremendous, but I suppose it’s mostly in the family.” “Mind,” interrupted the Ghost, almost sharply, “I don’t say anything against the good cheer and merriment at home. But there are many homes within a stone’s throw of your chair, where there will be no fine dinner, no presents, no meeting of friends, no tree,—nothing but anxiety and doubt and despair. Your dressing-gown would provide for several of them.” Mr. Broadstreet looked meekly at the embroidery upon his sleeves. “What would you have me do?” he asked. “Do you desire to perform your part toward making the morrow bright for some one who otherwise would find it all clouds? Do you wish to plant seeds of love and mercy and tenderness in some heart that has heretofore borne only thistles? To bring a smile to some weary face, warmth to shivering limbs, light and hope to dreary lives?” “I do! I do!” exclaimed the rich man, eagerly starting up from his chair. “And are you ready to sacrifice your ease and comfort, this stormy night, for such as they?” Mr. Broadstreet seized his fur cap and ulster from the rack in the hall. “Try me!” he cried. “I’m ready for anything!” The Ghost smiled pleasantly upon him, at the same time seeming to lift its hand involuntarily, as in blessing. Then it spoke for the last time. “Hitherto you have known only the bright side of Christmas,” it said gently. “It has been full of joy to you and yours. But there are those among your fellow creatures, nay, among your very neighbors, who dwell in such continued misery that when Christmas comes it but reminds them of their unhappy state, and by its excess of light upon others deepens the gloom about themselves. This is the Shadow of Christmas Present, and it falls heavily upon many a heart and many a household, where the day, with its good cheer and blessed associations, should bring naught but delight.” The kind Spirit’s voice wavered slightly. “I, myself, can do but little to dispel this shadow. It grieves me sorely, The Ghost was silent a moment. It beckoned to the other, and motioned to him to step behind it. “In my Shadow you shall move to-night,” it concluded, in a firmer voice. “It shall accompany you wherever you go, and your work shall be to turn it away, with whatever kind deeds your hand shall find to do, or cheering words you may have the power to speak.” It said no more. Mr. Broadstreet, who, when a child, had often longed to peep behind a picture, found himself actually fulfilling his wish. As he drew nearer the printed page, he heard a dull roar, like surf beating upon a rocky coast. He advanced further, picking his way around the pile of poultry and vegetables and glistening holly upon which the Ghost sat enthroned. A moment more and the room vanished in utter blackness of night, the roar grew grander and deeper, until it throbbed in his ears like the diapason of a mighty organ, a fierce blast of snow-laden wind struck his bewildered face, the street-lamp upon the corner flickered feebly in a mist of flakes—he was standing before his own door, knee-deep in a snow-drift, and buffeted above, below, and on every side by the storm that was abroad that Christmas Eve. IIAs soon as Mr. Broadstreet recovered himself and cleared his eyes from the blinding snow, he saw a heavy, black Shadow on the sidewalk enveloping his own person and resting upon the figure of a man who had evidently just sheltered himself behind the high stone steps, for his footprints leading from the street were still quite fresh. As the man thrashed his arms and stamped vigorously, to start the blood through his benumbed feet, a bright button or two gleamed upon his breast through the cape of his greatcoat. Mr. Broadstreet now recognized him as the policeman whose beat it was, and whom he had occasionally favored with a condescending nod, as he came home late at night from the theater or the club. He had never addressed him by so much as a word, but now the Shadow was full upon him, and Mr. Broadstreet felt that here was his first opportunity. “Good-evening, officer!” he shouted cheerily, through the storm. “Wish you a Merry Christmas to-morrow.” “Thank you, sir; same to you,” replied the other, with a touch of the cap and a pleased glance at the great man. “Hard times for the boys to-night, though.” “It is hard,” said Mr. Broadstreet compassionately. “Rather!” “Why, bless me,” a bright thought striking him, “wouldn’t you like a cup of hot coffee, now?” The officer looked up again, surprised. “I would that, sir, first-rate,” he answered heartily. Mr. Broadstreet stepped to the side door and pressed the electric knob. “Bring out a good cup of coffee for this man,” he said to the girl who answered the bell. “And, officer, buy the folks at home a trifle for me; Christmas, you know.” As he spoke, he put a big silver dollar into the astonished policeman’s hand, and at the same time the Shadow vanished, leaving the light from the bright, warm hall falling fairly upon the snow-covered cap and buttons. A muffled roll and jingling of bells made themselves heard above the wind, and a street-car came laboring down the street through the heavy drifts. Mr. Broadstreet, without a thought as to the destination of the car, but impelled by some unseen force, clambered upon the rear platform. The conductor was standing like a snowman, covered with white from head to foot, collar up around his ears, and hands deep in his pockets. And the Shadow was there again. Broad and gloomy, it surrounded both conductor and passenger in its bleak folds. “Tough night, sir,” remarked the former, presently. “Yes, yes, it is, indeed,” replied Mr. Broadstreet, “That’s a fact,” said the conductor. “Just the luck of it, I say. Now to-morrow I get four hours lay-off in the afternoon, and my wife, she was planning to take the children and go to the play. But they’re none of ’em over strong, and ’t won’t do to take ’em out in this snow. Besides, like’s not ’twill storm all day.” “Children?” exclaimed Mr. Broadstreet, seeing a way out of his difficulty; “how many?” “Two girls and a boy, all under seven.” “Got any Christmas presents for them?—don’t mind my asking.” “Well, I’d just ’s lief show you what I have got. ’T ain’t much, you know, but then it’s somethin’.” He stepped inside the door, laid aside his snowy mittens, and taking from the corner of the seat a small brown parcel, carefully removed the string and wrappings. “There,” he said, with a sort of pleading pride in his eyes, “I guess these’ll please ’em some. ’Taint much, you know,” he added again, glancing at his passenger’s fur cap, as he displayed the presents on the car-seat. A very red-cheeked and blue-eyed doll, with a placid countenance quite out of keeping with her arms; these members being so constructed as to occupy only two positions, one of which expressed unbounded astonishment, and the other gloomy resignation; As the conductor held up these articles in his stiff, red fingers, turning the doll about so as to show her flaxen braid to the best advantage, and inducing the arms to take the positions alluded to, the Shadow crept away, and had well-nigh disappeared. But it returned again, thicker than ever, when he said, with a little choke in his voice, “I did mean to get ’em a little tree, with candles on it, and a picture-book or two; but our pay ain’t overmuch, and we had sickness, and—and”—he was very busy doing up the bundle, and very clumsy he must have been, too, for it was a long time before the wide-looped, single bow-knot was tied, and the parcel carefully put away again. Mr. Broadstreet winked hard, and his eyes shone. “How long before you pass here on the way back?” he asked. “About thirty-five minutes it’ll take us to get round, sir, on account of the snow. It’s my last trip.” “Very well. Now, conductor—ahem! what did you say your name was?” “Tryson, sir; David Tryson.” “Then, ahem! Mr. Tryson—just ring your bell when you reach the corner there, on the up trip; and dodge into that store where the lights are. “Good-night, sir! God bless you, sir! Merry”—but his passenger was gone. As he reached the sidewalk, Mr. Broadstreet turned and looked after the car. Whether it was the light from the street lamp, or the broad flood of radiance that poured out from the windows of the toy-shop just beyond, he could not tell; but the rear platform was illuminated by a pure, steady glow, in the very center of which stood the conductor, smiling and waving his hand. No sign of a Shadow; not a bit of it. Mr. Broadstreet looked carefully about him, but it was nowhere to be seen. Even the snow, which all this time continued to fall without interruption, seemed to fill the air with tiny lamps of soft light. Ah, that toy-shop! Such heaps of blocks, and marbles, and sleds; such dolls with eyes that would wink upside down, exactly like a hen’s; such troops of horses and caravans of teams; such jangling of toy pianos, and tooting of toy horns, and shrieking of toy whistles, (these instruments being anxiously tested by portly papas and mammas, apparently to be sure of a good bargain, but really for the fun of the thing); such crowds of good-natured people, carrying canes, and drums, and hoop-sticks under their arms, taking and giving thrusts of these articles and being constantly pushed and pulled and jammed and trodden upon with the most delightful Mr. Broadstreet embarked on the current, and with an unconsciously benevolent smile on his round face was borne half-way down the store before he could make fast to a counter. “What can I do for you, sir?” If the girlish voice was brisk and businesslike it was at the same time undeniably pleasant. Mr. Broadstreet started. “Why, I want some presents; Christmas presents, you know,” he said, looking down into the merry brown eyes. “Boy or girl, sir, and how old?” Mr. Broadstreet was fairly taken aback by her promptness. His wife always did the Christmas shopping. “Let me see,” he began hurriedly; “two girls and a—no, I mean two boys—why, bless me,” he went on in great confusion, as her low laugh rang out among the woolly sheep with which she happened to be surrounded, “I’ve really forgotten. That is—Oh, I see; you needn’t laugh,” and Mr. Broadstreet’s own smile broadened as he spoke, “they’re not mine. I never heard of them until five minutes “How would a lamb do for the oldest? Real wool and natural motion?” in proof of which latter assertion she set all their heads nodding in the most violent manner, until it made her customers quite dizzy to look at them. Mr. Broadstreet picked out the biggest one. “He seems to—ah—bow more vigorously than the rest,” he said. The girl then proceeded to display various toys and gay-colored picture-books, Mr. Broadstreet assenting to the choice in every instance, until a large, compact bundle lay on the counter, plainly marked, “Mr. Tryson, Conductor. To be called for.” As the lawyer was leaving the store, he remembered something, and turned back. “I forgot,” he said, “I wanted to buy a tree”— “Just round the corner,” interrupted the brown-eyed girl over her shoulder, without looking at him. She was already deep in the confidence of the next customer, who had told her the early history of two of her children, and was now proceeding to the third. Mr. Broadstreet buttoned up his coat collar, and stepped out once more into the storm. A few moments’ walk brought him to a stand where the trees were for sale. And what a spicy, fragrant, delicious, jolly place it was, to be sure! The sidewalk was flanked right and left with rows upon rows of “All brightness,” thought Mr. Broadstreet, “and no Shadow this time.” None? What was that black ugly-looking stain on the fallen snow, extending from his own feet to one of the rude wooden stands where traffic was busiest? Mr. Broadstreet started, and scrutinized it sharply. He soon discovered the outline of Christmas Present. Beyond a doubt it was the Shadow again. IIIIt must be confessed that for a moment Mr. Broadstreet felt slightly annoyed. Why should that Thing be constantly starting up and darkening his cheerful mood? It was bad enough that the “Forgive me,” he said, half aloud. “I was wrong. I forgot. I will, please God, brighten this spot and turn away the Shadow!” Without further delay he advanced through the gloomy space until he reached the box, upon which a large lot of holly wreaths and crosses were displayed. He soon completed the purchase of a fine thick fir, and sent it, together with a roll of evergreens, to the toy-shop, directed like the parcel to the conductor. The owner of the stand was a jovial, bright-faced young fellow, and it was evident that to him Christmas meant only gladness and jollity. But the Shadow still rested upon Mr. Broadstreet and all the snowy sidewalk about him. He was thoroughly puzzled to find its object, and had almost begun to consider the whole affair a delusion, when his eyes fell upon an odd little man, standing in the shelter of the trees, and visibly shaking with the cold, although his coat was tightly buttoned about his meager form, and his old hat pulled down over his ears. As he saw the portly lawyer looking at him he advanced timidly and touched his hat. “Can I carry a bundle for you, sir?” he asked, his teeth chattering as he spoke. “Why, I’m afraid not,” said Mr. Broadstreet. “I’ve just sent away all my goods.” The man’s face fell. He touched his hat again and was humbly turning away, when the other laid his hand lightly on his shoulder. “You seem to be really suffering with the cold, my friend,” he said in such gentle tones that his “learned brothers upon the other side” would not have recognized it; “and that’s a little too bad for Christmas Eve.” “Christmas! Christmas!” shivered the man with a little moan, wringing his thin hands, “what is that to me! What is that to a man whose wife is dying for want of tender nursing and wholesome food? whose children are growing up to a life of misery and degradation? whose own happiness is gone, gone, so long ago that he has forgotten the feeling of it?” Mr. Broadstreet patted the shoulder gently. “Come, come,” he said, trying to speak cheerily; “it isn’t so bad as that, you know. Times are better, and there’s plenty of work.” “Work!” cried the man bitterly. “Yes, for the friends of the rich; for the young and strong; for the hopeful, but not for me. I tell you, sir,” he continued, raising his clenched fist until the ragged sleeve fell back and left his long, gaunt wrist bare in the biting wind, “I’ve walked from end to end of Boston, day after day, answering To Mr. Broadstreet’s dismay, the poor fellow suddenly hid his face in his hands, and broke down in a tempest of sobs. Ah, how dark the Shadow was then! The storm had ceased, but the keen northwest wind still swept the streets, filling the air with fine, icy particles of snow, and driving to their warm homes those who had remained down town to make their last purchases. The man shivered and sobbed by turns, and was quite the sport of the wind, which was buffeting him with its soft, cruel paws; when suddenly the world seemed to grow warmer. He felt something heavy and soft upon his back and around his neck. Mechanically thrusting his arms through the sleeves which opened to meet them, and looking up in amazement, he beheld his new friend standing upon the sidewalk in his dressing-gown, a genial smile upon his beaming face, and his hand outstretched. The lawyer laughed gleefully at his consternation. “It’s all right,” he said, as the Discouraged Man tried to pull off the ulster and return it to its owner. “I’m warmer than ever. Come on, let’s go home and see your wife and children. Don’t stop to talk!” and seizing the other by the hand, or rather the cuff of his sleeve, which was much too long for him, It was a strange experience for the proud lawyer, that walk through the dark streets, floundering among snow-drifts, slipping, tumbling, scrambling along over icy sidewalks and buried crossings, the long-skirted gown flapping about his heels in the most ridiculous way. He kept his eyes steadily fixed on the Shadow, which was always before him, now turning down a side street, now doubling on itself, ever growing more and more distinct, and drawing its two followers farther and farther into the lowest quarter of the city. The stars were out now, and seemed to flicker in the fierce wind like the gas lights upon the street corners. Mr. Broadstreet felt curiously warm without his ulster and as light-hearted as a boy. As they passed through the most brilliantly-lighted streets, however, he saw much that filled him for the moment with sadness. For the Shadow now grew enormously large, and rested upon many places. It brooded darkly over the brilliant saloons that lined the way, and that clothed themselves in the very garments of Christmas to attract the innocent and foolish, so that, drawn by the sheen of holly and evergreen, and the show of festivities and good cheer, they might enter and find their own destruction. Oftentimes, too, the Shadow flitted along the street in company with some man or woman who to all outward appearance was calm and While Mr. Broadstreet was peering about for the Shadow, and taking into his heart the lessons it taught, he had not been idle, giving a kind word or a bit of money or a pleasant glance wherever the chance offered. The Shadow now paused before a narrow doorway in a crooked little street, and the two, or rather the three, for the Shadow went before them, entered and mounted the stairway. Mr. Broadstreet stumbled several times, but the Discouraged Man went up like one who was well used to the premises. As they reached the third landing, a voice somewhere near them commenced to sing feebly, and they stopped to listen. “It’s Annette,” whispered the Discouraged Man; “she’s singing for me. It was a way she had when we were first married, and I used to like it, coming Yes, Mr. Broadstreet heard her. Poor, poor little thin voice, trembling weakly on the high notes and avoiding the low ones altogether. It was more like a child’s than a woman’s, and so tired—so tired! He fumbled in his dressing-gown pocket and turned his head away; quite needlessly, for it was very dark. The two men remained silent for a moment, listening to the echo of the gay young voice with which the little bride used to greet her husband; she, so tender, and loving, and true; he, so strong, and brave, and hopeful for the future! And as they listened, they caught the words: “Christ was born on Christmas Day, Wreathe the holly, twine the bay, Carol Christmas joyfully, The Babe, the Son, the Holy One of Mary.” “That’s a new one,” whispered the Discouraged Man again, delightedly. “She never sang it before. She must have learned it on purpose for to-night!” There was a weary little pause within the room; she wondering, perhaps, why he didn’t come in. Presently she began again, and her voice had grown strangely weak, so that they could hardly hear it, in the rush of the wind outside the building: It died away into a mere whisper, and then ceased entirely. Mr. Broadstreet hesitated no longer, but touched his companion’s arm, and they both entered. She was lying on a rude bed in the corner of the room, her eyes closed, and her hands folded upon her breast. A look of agony swept across the face of her husband as he knelt beside her, taking her cold hands—ah, so thin! in his own, chafing and kissing them by turns. Above his head on the whitewashed wall was the word “John,” in large, bright letters. It was his name; she had crept from her bed and traced it with her finger-tip upon the frosty window-pane, so that the light from a far-off street lamp shone through the clear lines, and thus reproduced them upon the opposite wall. Just beneath was “Merry Christmas.” She thought it would please him, and seem like a sort of decoration, hung there above her bed. And now he was kneeling by her side, and holding her thin hands. Perhaps he was more discouraged than ever, just then. O Shadow, Shadow, could you not have spared him this? Mr. Broadstreet hung the wreaths he had brought upon the bed-post, and waited helplessly. A mist gathered in his eyes, so that he could not see; the walls of the little dismal chamber wavered to and fro, the Shadow grew more and more dense until it seemed to assume definite shape, the shape of Christmas Present, sitting as before, enthroned amidst plenty and good cheer; the deep-toned bells in a neighboring church-tower slowly and solemnly tolled twelve strokes, answered by the silver chime of a Not many hours later, the glad sun was shining brightly over the white-robed city, sprinkling the streets and housetops with diamond-dust, gleaming upon the golden spires of churches, seeking out every dark and unwholesome corner with its noiseless step, and dispensing with open hand its bounty of purity and warmth. Yet the shadow was there, even on that fairest of Christmas Days,—and Mr. Broadstreet knew it. Throughout the day he was thoughtful and abstracted, and during the following weeks he was observed to act in the most unaccountable manner. On snowy evenings he would dodge out of the house without the slightest warning, and return shortly after with damp boots and a defeated air. Upon the street-cars Mr. Broadstreet became famous that winter for his obliging manner and Down town he behaved still more queerly, leaving the office long before dark, and being discovered in the oddest places imaginable; now diving into narrow courts, and up steep staircases, now plunging into alleyways and no thoroughfares; and returning home late to dinner, greatly exhausted, with little or no money in his pockets. In these days, too, he began to talk about the sufferings of the poor, the abuses of the liquor law, the need of strong, pure women to go among the outcasts of our great, troubled city and perform Christlike deeds. One bitter cold night he was much later than usual. It had been snowing heavily, and his wife had begun to worry a little over the absence of her husband, when she heard the click of his key in the front door. When Mr. Broadstreet entered, sprinkled with snow from head to foot, what was her amazement to see him standing there with fur cap and gloves, and a glowing face, but no ulster! “Alonzo, Alonzo,” she cried, from the head of the stairs, “what will you forget next? Where have you left it?” “Why,” said he simply, “I’ve found the Discouraged Man. And the doctor at the hospital says she’ll get well, after all.” |
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