piece of white paper pass from Kitty's muff into the hand of the
stranger, whom she instantly recognized as the greasy fisherman who had
crossed the bridge half an hour before.




CHAPTER XII

A FACE ON THE WALL


Betty sat in her favorite seat, a low, three-legged cricket, on the side
farthest from the fire in Clarissa's little morning-room; it was the day
before Christmas, and Betty's fingers were busy tying evergreens into
small bunches and wreaths. Of these a large hamperful stood at her
elbow, and Peter was cutting away the smaller branches, with a face of
importance.

"So you have never kept Christmas before," said he, pausing in his
cheerful whistle, which he kept up under his breath like a violin
obligato to his whittling of boughs; "and you don't believe in Kris
Kringle and his prancing reindeers? My, what fun we boys had up in the
old Beverwyck at Albany last year," and Peter chuckled at the
recollection of past pranks. "Down here in the city it is chiefly New
Year day which is observed, but thank fortune Gulian is sufficiently
Dutch to believe in St. Nicholas."

"Yes?" murmured Betty, her thoughts far away as she wondered what
Moppet was doing up in the Litchfield hills, and whether Oliver had got