CHAPTER XI.
The father went out by the door that opened into the passage, and the next moment Livingstone could hear him in deep conference in the adjoining room; at first with his wife, and then with the little girl herself.
The door did not fit very closely and the partition was thin, so that Livingstone could not help hearing what was said, and even when he could shut out the words he could not help knowing from the tones what was going on.
The mother was readily won over, but when the little girl was consulted she flatly refused.

Her father undertook to coax her.
To Livingstone's surprise the argument he used was not that Livingstone was rich, but that he was so poor and lonely; not well off and happy like him, with a house full of little children to love him and make him happy and give him a merry Christmas.
The point of view was new to Livingstone--at least, it was recent; but he recognized its force and listened hopefully.

The child's reply dashed his hopes.
"But, papa, I hate him so--I just _hate_ him!" she declared, earnestly.
"I'm _glad_ he hasn't any little children to love him.

When he wouldn't let you come home to us this evening, I just prayed so hard to God not to let him have any home and not to let him have any Christmas--not _ever!_" The eager little voice had risen in the child's earnestness and it pierced through the door and struck Livingstone like an arrow.

There came back to him that sentence, "_Whoso offendeth one of these little ones, it were better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck_--." Livingstone fairly shivered, but he had able defenders.
"Oh, Kitty!" exclaimed both her father and mother, aghast at the child's bitterness.
They next tried the argument that Livingstone had been so kind to the father.