It was quite clear out now and the moon was riding high in a cloudless heaven.

The jingle of sleigh-bells had increased and just as Livingstone turned the corner a sleigh dashed past him.

He heard the merry voices of young people, and amid the voices the ringing laughter of a young girl, clear as a silver bell.
Livingstone stopped short in his tracks and listened.

He had not heard anything so musical in years--he had not heard a young girl's laughter in years--he had not had time to think of such things.

It brought back across the snow-covered fields--across the snow-covered years--a Christmas of long ago when he had heard a young girl's musical laughter like a silvery chime, and, standing there in the snow-covered street, for one moment Livingstone was young again--no longer a gray-haired man in the city; but a young man in the country, somewhere under great arching boughs; face to face with one who was also young;--and, looking out from a hood that surrounded it like a halo, a girlish face flashed on him: cheeks like roses, brilliant with the frosty air; roguish eyes, now dancing, now melting; a laughing mouth from which came such rippling music that there was no simile for it in all the realm of silvery sound, the enchanting music of the joy of youth.
With a cry, Livingstone sprang forward with outstretched, eager hands to catch the vision; but his arms enclosed only vacancy and he stood alone in the empty street.
A large sleigh came by and Livingstone hailed it.