"Well?" he said condescendingly, "I bet I knew all the time."
"No, you didn't! D'you know," she sank her voice to a confidential whisper, "there's a chap called Father Christmas wot comes down chimneys Christmas Eve and leaves presents in people's houses?"
He gave a scornful laugh.
"Oh, that rot! You don't believe that rot, do you?"
"Rot?" she repeated indignantly. "Why, it's true—true as true! A boy told me wot had hanged his stocking up by the chimney an' in the morning it was full of things an' they was jus' the things wot he'd wrote on a bit of paper an' thrown up the chimney to this 'ere Christmas chap."
"Only kids believe that rot," persisted William. "I left off believin' it years and years ago!"
Her face grew pink with the effort of convincing him.
"But the boy told me, the boy wot got things from this 'ere chap wot comes down chimneys. An' I've wrote wot I want an' sent it up the chimney. Don't you think I'll get it?"
William looked down at her. Her blue eyes, big with apprehension, were fixed on him, her little rosy lips were parted. William's heart softened.
"I dunno," he said doubtfully. "You might, I s'pose. What d'you want for Christmas?"