He stood on the sagging¹ doorstep and looked out on the snowy world. His hands were clasped behind him, and his thin face wore a thoughtful, puzzled look. The door behind him opened jerkingly, and a scowling² woman came out with a pan of dishwater in her hand.

 

"Ain't you gone yet, Bert?" she said sharply. "What in the world are you hanging round for?"

 

"It's early yet," said Bertie cheerfully. "I thought maybe George Fraser'd be along and I'd get a lift as far as the store."

 

"Well, I never saw such laziness! No wonder old Sampson won't keep you longer than the holidays if you're no smarter than that. Goodness, if I don't settle that boy!"—as the sound of fretful crying came from the kitchen behind her.

 

"What is wrong with William John?" asked Bertie.

 

"Why, he wants to go out coasting with those Robinson boys, but he can't. He hasn't got any mittens⁴ and he would catch his death of cold again."

 

Her voice seemed to imply that William John had died of cold several times already.

 

Bertie looked soberly down at his old, well-darned mittens. It was very cold, and he would have a great many errands to run. He shivered, and looked up at his aunt's hard face as she stood wiping her dish-pan with a grim frown which boded⁵ no good to the discontented William John. Then he suddenly pulled off his mittens and held them out.

 

"Here—he can have mine. I'll get on without them well enough."

 

"Nonsense!" said Mrs. Ross, but less unkindly. "The fingers would freeze off you. Don't be a goose."

 

"It's all right," persisted Bertie. "I don't need them—much. And William John doesn't hardly ever get out."

 

He thrust them into her hand and ran quickly down the street, as though he feared that the keen air might make him change his mind in spite of himself. He had to stop a great many times that day to breathe on his purple hands. Still, he did not regret having lent his mittens to William John—poor, pale, sickly little William John, who had so few pleasures.

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