The furniture was old and worn, but it was not mean. A few old pieces gave the room, small as it was, almost an air of distinction. Several old prints hung on the walls, a couple of portraits in pink crayon, such as St. Mimin used to paint, and a few photographs in frames, most of them of children,—but among them one of Livingstone himself.
All this Livingstone took in as he entered. The room was in a state of confusion, and a lounge on one side, with its pillows still bearing the imprint of an occupant, showed that the house held an invalid. In one corner a Christmas-tree, half dressed, explained the litter. It was not a very large tree; certainly it was not very richly dressed. The things that hung on it were very simple. Many of them evidently were of home-manufacture—knots of ribbon, little garments, second-hand books, even home-made toys.
A small pile of similar articles lay on the floor, where they had been placed ready for service and had been left by the tree-dressers on their hasty departure.
Clark's eye followed instinctively that of the visitor.
"My wife has been dressing a tree for the children," he said simply.
He faced Livingstone and offered him a chair. He stiffened as he did so. He was evidently prepared for the worst.
Livingstone sat down. It was an awkward moment. Livingstone broke the ice.
"Mr. Clark, I have come to ask you a favor—a great favor—"
Clark's eyes opened wide and his lips even parted slightly in his astonishment.
"—I want you to lend me your little girl—the little girl I saw in the office this afternoon."