"Believe he's gone to the telephone," said the clerk, sulkily. He
picked up his hat and said good-night hurriedly. He was evidently glad
to get off.

Livingstone returned to his own room; but left the door ajar so that he
could see Clark when he returned. When, however, a few moments
afterwards Clark appeared Livingstone had cooled down. Why should he
expect gratitude? He did not pay Clark for gratitude, but for work, and
this the clerk did faithfully. It was an ungrateful world, anyhow.

At that moment there was a light knock at the outer door, and, on
Clark's bidding, some one entered.

Livingstone, from where he sat, could see the door reflected in a mirror
that hung in his office.

The visitor was a little girl. She was clad in a red jacket, and on her
head was a red cap, from under which her hair pushed in a profusion of
ringlets. Her cheeks were like apples, and her whole face was glowing
from the frosty air. It was just her head that Livingstone saw first, as
she poked it in and peeped around. Then, as Mr. Clark sat with his back
to the door and she saw that no one else was present, the visitor
inserted her whole body and, closing the door softly, with her eyes
dancing and her little mouth puckered up in a mischievous way, she came
on tiptoe across the floor, stealing towards Clark until she was within
a few feet of him, when with a sudden little rush she threw her arms
about his head and clapped her hands quickly over his eyes:

"Guess who it is?" she cried.