"
"Believe in him?" said Time quietly. "You may well do
that. He happens to be standing outside in the street at
this moment."
"Outside?" I exclaimed. "Why don't he come in?"
"He's afraid to," said Father Time. "He's frightened and
he daren't come in unless you ask him. May I call him in?"
I signified assent, and Father Time went to the window
for a moment and beckoned into the darkened street. Then
I heard footsteps, clumsy and hesitant they seemed, upon
the stairs. And in a moment a figure stood framed in the
doorway--the figure of Father Christmas. He stood shuffling
his feet, a timid, apologetic look upon his face.
How changed he was!
I had known in my mind's eye, from childhood up, the face
and form of Father Christmas as well as that of Old Time
himself. Everybody knows, or once knew him--a jolly little
rounded man, with a great muffler wound about him, a
packet of toys upon his back and with such merry, twinkling
eyes and rosy cheeks as are only given by the touch of
the driving snow and the rude fun of the North Wind. Why,
there was once a time, not yet so long ago, when the very
sound of his sleigh-bells sent the blood running warm to
the heart.
But now how changed.
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