The hut and its shadow stood a dark patch in the bright moonlight. Tom went in softly and lit the candle. Little Harry was asleep—or seemed asleep. Tom changed his wet flannel and moleskins, and then opened the parcel he had brought with him. A woman's stocking hung to a nail at the head of the boy's bunk, and the sight of it gave Tom a pang; he thought at first that it was one of his wife's stockings, which had remained all this time unnoticed amongst his belongings, and which the boy had found; but, on second thoughts, he concluded that it must have been borrowed for the purpose from Mrs. Foster. Moving softly, Tom put the lollies, ball, stem of a jumping- jack and tin whistle in the stocking, and laid a Chatter-box and a popgun on the table close handy. He turned to see if he had missed anything, when the boy spoke suddenly, and Tom started as if he had been shot. Little Harry was sitting up, his eyes wide open and bright, and his arms stretched out towards his father.
"Father! Father!" he cried. "Oh, I'm so glad you're Santa Claus. I suspected it for such a long time."
And the lonely man went down on his knees by the bunk, and the little arms went round his neck.
"Father," said Harry presently, "why do you turn your face away? Why don't you look at me?"
But the father couldn't for a while. Presently he asked, in a strange voice—
"Where did you get the stocking, sonny?"
