All draggled with the mud and rain he stood, as if no
house had sheltered him these three years past. His old
red jersey was tattered in a dozen places, his muffler
frayed and ravelled.
The bundle of toys that he dragged with him in a net
seemed wet and worn till the cardboard boxes gaped asunder.
There were boxes among them, I vow, that he must have
been carrying these three past years.
But most of all I noted the change that had come over
the face of Father Christmas. The old brave look of cheery
confidence was gone. The smile that had beamed responsive
to the laughing eyes of countless children around unnumbered
Christmas-trees was there no more. And in the place of
it there showed a look of timid apology, of apprehensiveness,
as of one who has asked in vain the warmth and shelter
of a human home--such a look as the harsh cruelty of this
world has stamped upon the faces of its outcasts.
So stood Father Christmas shuffling upon the threshold,
fumbling his poor tattered hat in his hand.
"Shall I come in?" he said, his eyes appealingly on Father
Time.
"Come," said Time. He turned to speak to me, "Your room
is dark. Turn up the lights. He's used to light, bright
light and plenty of it.
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