"
"Under a hundred?" I expostulated. "Well, I should think
so!"
"Your pardon again," said Time, "the fault is in my
failing memory. I forgot. You seldom pass that nowadays,
do you? Your life is very short of late."
I heard him breathe a wistful hollow sigh. Very ancient
and dim he seemed as he stood beside me. But I did not
turn to look upon him. I had no need to. I knew his form,
in the inner and clearer sight of things, as well as
every human being knows by innate instinct, the Unseen
face and form of Father Time.
I could hear him murmuring beside me, "Short--short, your
life is short"; till the sound of it seemed to mingle
with the measured ticking of a clock somewhere in the
silent house.
Then I remembered what he had said.
"How do you know that I am wrong?" I asked. "And how can
you tell what I was thinking?"
"You said it out loud," answered Father Time. "But it
wouldn't have mattered, anyway. You said that Christmas
was all played out and done with."
"Yes," I admitted, "that's what I said."
"And what makes you think that?" he questioned, stooping,
so it seemed to me, still further over my shoulder.
"Why," I answered, "the trouble is this. I've been sitting
here for hours, sitting till goodness only knows how far
into the night, trying to think out something to write
for a Christmas story.
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