"Have you any brothers or sisters, Bertie?"
"No'm," returned Bertie cheerfully. "I guess there's enough of us without that. I must be going now. I'm very much obliged to you."
Edith slipped from the room as he spoke, and met him again at the door. She held out a pair of warm-looking mittens.
"These are for William John," she said simply, "so that you can have your own. They are a pair of mine which are too big for me. I know Papa will say it is all right. Goodbye, Bertie."
"Goodbye—and thank you," stammered Bertie, as the door closed. Then he hastened home to William John.
That evening Doctor Forbes noticed a peculiarly thoughtful look on Edith's face as she sat gazing into the glowing coal fire after dinner. He laid his hand on her dark curls inquiringly.
"What are you musing over?"
"There was a little boy here today," began Edith.
"Oh, such a dear little boy," broke in Amy eagerly from the corner, where she was playing with her kitten. "His name was Bertie Ross. He brought up the parcels, and we asked him in to get warm. He had no mittens, and his hands were almost frozen. And, oh, Papa, just think!—he said he never had any Christmas or New Year at all."
"Poor little fellow!" said the doctor. "I've heard of him; a pretty hard time he has of it, I think."