"She says you're praying; that you've stopped your work and 'turned to higher things.' She says we all should have an Angelus in our lives each day. Good God!—as if she knew!"—Hephzibah was on her feet now, her hands to her head.

"An Angelus?—me?" continued the woman scornfully. "And where? The dish-pan?—the wash-tub?—the chicken-yard? A fine Angelus, that! And yet"—Hephzibah dropped to her knees again—"you look so quiet, so peaceful, and, oh, so—rested!"

"For the land's sake, Hetty, what be you doin'? Have you gone clean crazy?"—It was Theron in the parlor doorway.

Hephzibah rose wearily to her feet. "Sometimes I think I have, Theron," she said.

"Well,"—he hesitated,—"ain't it 'most—supper-time?"

"I s'pose 'tis," she assented, listlessly, and dragged herself from the room.

It was not long after this that the picture disappeared from the parlor. Hephzibah had borne it very carefully to her room and hung it on the wall at the foot of her bed, where her eyes would open upon it the first thing every morning. Each day she talked to it, and each day it grew to be more and more a part of her very self. Not until the picture had been there a week, however, did she suddenly realize that it represented the twilight hour; then, like a flash of light, came her inspiration.

"It's at sunset—I'll go out at sunset! Now my Angelus will come to me," she cried softly. "I know it will!"

Then did the little hillside farmhouse see strange sights indeed. Each night, as the sun dropped behind the far-away hills, Hephzibah left her work and passed through the kitchen door, her face uplifted, and her eyes on the distant sky-line.

Sometimes she would turn to the left to the open field and stand there motionless, unconsciously falling into the reverent attitude now so familiar to her; sometimes she would turn to the right and pause at the brow of the hill, where the valley in all its panorama of loveliness lay before her; and sometimes she would walk straight ahead to the old tumble-down gate where she might face the west and watch the rose change to palest amber in the sky.

At first her eyes saw but grass, sky, and dull-brown earth, and her thoughts turned in bitterness to her unfinished tasks; but gradually the witchery of the summer night entered her soul and left room for little else. Strange faces, peeping in and out of the clouds, looked at her from the sky; and fantastic figures, clothed in the evening mist, swept up the valley to her feet. The grass assumed a deeper green, and the trees stood out like sentinels along the hilltop behind the house. Even when she turned and went back to the kitchen, and took upon herself once more the accustomed tasks, her eyes still faintly glowed with the memory of what they had seen.

"It do beat all," said Theron a month later to Helen Raymond, who was again a visitor at the farm,—"it do beat all, Helen, what's come over yer aunt. She used ter be nervous-like, and fretted, an' things never went ter suit. Now she's calm, an' her eyes kind o' shine—'specially when she comes in from one of them tramps of hers outdoors. She says it's her Angelus—if ye know what that is; but it strikes me as mighty queer—it do, Helen, it do!"

And Helen smiled, content.



The Apple of Her Eye

It rained. It had rained all day. To Helen Raymond, spatting along the wet slipperiness of the drenched pavements, it seemed as if it had always rained, and always would rain.

Helen was tired, blue, and ashamed—ashamed because she was blue; blue because she was tired; and tired because—wearily her mind reviewed her day.

She had dragged herself out of bed at half-past five, but even then her simple toilet had been hastened to an untidy half completion by the querulous insistence of her mother's frequent "You know, Helen,—you must know how utterly impossible it is for me to lift my head until I've had my coffee! Are n't you nearly ready?" Mrs. Raymond had wakened earlier than usual that morning, and she could never endure to lie in bed when not asleep.

With one shoe unbuttoned and no collar on, Helen had prepared the coffee; then had come the delicate task of getting the semi-invalid up and dressed, with hair smoothed to the desired satiny texture. The hair had refused to smooth, however, this morning; buttons had come off, too, and strings had perversely knotted until Helen's patience had almost snapped—almost, but not quite. In the end her own breakfast, and the tidying of herself and the little four-room flat, had degenerated into a breathless scramble broken by remorseful apologies to her mother, in response to which Mrs. Raymond only sighed:

"Oh, of course, it does n't matter; but you know how haste and confusion annoy me, and how bad it is for me!"

It had all resulted as Helen had feared that it would result—she was late; and tardiness at Henderson & Henderson's meant a sharp reprimand, and in time, a fine. Helen's place in the huge department store was behind a counter where spangled nets and embroidered chiffons were sold. It had seemed to Helen today that half the world must be giving a ball to which the other half was invited, so constant—in spite of the rain—were the calls for her wares. The girl told herself bitterly that it would not be so unendurable were she handling anything but those filmy, glittering stuffs that spoke so loudly of youth and love and laughter. If it were only gray socks and kitchen kettles that she tended! At least she would be spared the sight of those merry, girlish faces, and the sound of those care-free, laughing voices. At least she would not have all day before her eyes the slender, gloved fingers which she knew were as fair and delicate as the fabrics they so ruthlessly tossed from side to side.

Annoyances at the counter had been more frequent to-day than usual, Helen thought. Perhaps the rain had made people cross. Whatever it was, the hurried woman had been more hurried, and the insolent woman more unbearable. There had been, too, an irritating repetition of the woman who was "just looking," and of her sister who "did n't know"; "was n't quite sure"; but "guessed that would n't do." Consequently Helen's list of sales had been short in spite of her incessant labor—and the list of sales was what Henderson & Henderson looked at when a promotion was being considered.

And through it all, hour after hour, there had been the shimmer of the spangles, the light chatter of coming balls and weddings, the merry voices of care-free girls—the youth, and love, and laughter.

"Youth, and love, and laughter." Unconsciously Helen repeated the words aloud; then she smiled bitterly as she applied them to herself. Youth?—she was twenty-five. Love?—the grocer? the milkman? the floorwalker? oh, yes, and there was the postman. Laughter?—she could not remember when she had seen anything funny—really funny enough to laugh at.

Of all this Helen thought as she plodded wearily homeward; of this, and more. At home there would be supper to prepare, her mother to get to bed, and the noon dishes to clear away. Helen drew in her breath sharply as she thought of the dinner. She hoped that it had not been codfish-and-cream to-day. If it had, she must speak to Mrs. Mason. Codfish twice a week might do, but five times! (Mrs. Mason was the neighbor who, for a small sum each day, brought Mrs. Raymond her dinner fully cooked.) There was a waist to iron and some mending to do. Helen remembered that. There would be time, however, for it all, she thought; that is, if it should not unfortunately be one of her mother's wakeful evenings when talking—and on one subject—was the only thing that would soothe her.

Helen sighed now. She was almost home, but involuntarily her speed slackened. She became suddenly more acutely aware of the dreary flapping of her wet skirts against her ankles, and of the swish of the water as it sucked itself into the hole at the heel of her left overshoe. The wind whistled through an alleyway in a startling swoop and nearly wrenched her umbrella from her half-numbed fingers, but still her step lagged. The rain slapped her face smartly as the umbrella careened, but even that did not spur her to haste. Unmistakably she dreaded to go home—and it was at this realization that Helen's shame deepened into a dull red on her cheeks; as if any girl, any right-hearted girl, should mind a mother's talk of her only son!

At the shabby door of the apartment house Helen half closed her umbrella and shook it fiercely. Then, as if freeing herself from something as obnoxious as was the rain, she threw back her head and shook that, too. A moment later, carefully carrying the dripping umbrella, she hurried up three flights of stairs and unlocked the door of the rear suite.

"My, but it sprinkles! Did you know it?" she cried cheerily to the little woman sitting by the west window.

"'Sprinkles'! Helen, how can you speak like that when you know what a dreadful day it is!" fretted the woman. "But then, you don't know. You never do know. If you had to just sit here and stare and stare and stare at that rain all day, as I do, perhaps you would know."

"Perhaps," smiled Helen oddly—she was staring just then at the havoc that that same rain had wrought in what had been a fairly good hat.

Her mother's glance followed hers.

"Helen, that can't be—your hat!" cried the woman, aghast.

Helen smiled quizzically. "Do you know that's exactly what I was thinking myself, mother! It can't be—but it is."

"But it's ruined, utterly ruined!"

"Yes, ma'am."

"And you have n't any other that's really decent!"

"No, ma'am."

The woman sighed impatiently. "Helen, how can you answer like that when you know what it means to spoil that hat? Can't anything dampen your absurd high spirits?"

"'High spirits'!" breathed the girl. A quick flash leaped to her eyes. Her lips parted angrily; then, as suddenly, they snapped close shut. In another minute she had turned and left the room quietly.

Clothed in dry garments a little later, Helen set about the evening's tasks. At the first turn in the little room that served for both kitchen and dining-room she found the dinner dishes waiting to be cleared from the table—and there were unmistakable evidences of codfish-and-cream. As she expected, she had not long to wait.

"Helen," called a doleful voice from the sitting-room.

"Yes, mother."

"She brought codfish again to-day—five times this week; and you know how I dislike codfish!"

"Yes, I know, dear. I'm so sorry!"

"'Sorry'! But that does n't feed me. You must speak to her, Helen. I can't eat codfish like that. You must speak to-night when you take the dishes back."

"Very well, mother; but—well, you know we don't pay very much."

"Then pay more. I'm sure I shouldn't think you'd grudge me enough to eat, Helen."

"Mother! How can you say a thing like that!" Helen's voice shook. She paused a moment, a dish half-dried in her hands; but from the other room came only silence.

Supper that night was prepared with unusual care. There was hot corncake, too,—Mrs. Raymond liked hot corncake. It was a little late, it is true; Helen had not planned for the corncake at first—but there was the codfish. If the poor dear had had nothing but codfish! . . . Helen opened a jar of the treasured peach preserves, too; indeed, the entire supper table from the courageous little fern in the middle to the "company china" cup at Mrs. Raymond's plate was a remorseful apology for that midday codfish. If Mrs. Raymond noticed this, she gave no sign. Without comment, she ate the corncake and the peach preserves, and drank her tea from the china cup; with Mrs. Raymond only the codfish of one's daily life merited comment.

It was at the supper table that Helen's mother brought out the letter.

"You don't ask, nor seem to care," she began with a curious air of injured triumph, "but I've got a letter from Herbert."

The younger woman flushed.

"Why, of course, I care," she retorted cheerily. "What does he say?"

"He wrote it several days ago. It got missent. But it's such a nice letter!"

"They always are."

"It asks particularly how I am, and says he's sorry I have to suffer so. He cares."

Only the swift red in Helen's cheeks showed that the daughter understood the emphasis.

"Of course he cares," she answered smoothly.

"And he sent me a present, too—money!" Mrs. Raymond's usually fretful whine carried a ring of exultation.

Helen lifted her head eagerly.

"Money?"

"Yes. A new crisp dollar bill. He told me to get something pretty—some little trinket that I'd like."

"But, a dollar—only a dollar," murmured Helen. "Now you're needing a wrapper, but that—"

"A wrapper, indeed!" interrupted Mrs. Raymond in fine scorn. "A wrapper is n't a 'trinket' for me! I'd have wrappers anyway, of course. He said to buy something pretty; something I'd like. But then, I might have known. You never think I need anything but wrappers and—and codfish! I—I'm glad I've got one child that—that appreciates!" And Mrs. Raymond lifted her handkerchief to her eyes.

Across the table Helen caught her lower lip between her teeth. For a moment she did not speak; then very gently she said:—

"Mother, you did n't quite mean that, I'm sure. You know very well that I—I'd dress you in silks and velvets, and feed you on strawberries and cream, if I could. It's only that—that— But never mind. Use the dollar as you please, dear. Is n't there something—some little thing you would like?"

Mrs. Raymond lowered her handkerchief. Her grieved eyes looked reproachfully across at her daughter.

"I'd thought of—a tie; a lace tie with pretty ends; a nice tie. You know how I like nice things!"

"Of course, you do; and you shall have it, too," cried Helen. "I'll bring some home tomorrow night for you to select from. Now that will be fine, won't it?"

The other drew a resigned sigh.

"'Fine'! That's just like you, Helen. You never appreciate—never realize. Perhaps you do think it's 'fine' to stay mewed up at home here and have ties brought to you instead of going out yourself to the store and buying them, like other women!"

"Oh, but just don't look at it that way," retorted Helen in a cheerful voice. "Just imagine you're a queen, or a president's wife, or a multi-millionairess who is sitting at home in state to do her shopping just because she wishes to avoid the vulgar crowds in the stores; eh, mother dear?"

"Mother dear" sniffed disdainfully.

"Really, Helen," she complained, "you are impossible. One would think you might have some sympathy, some consideration for my feelings! There's your brother, now. He's all sympathy. Look at his letter. Think of that dollar he sent me—just a little thing to give me happiness. And he's always doing such things. Did n't he remember how I loved peppermints, and give me a whole box at Christmas?"

Helen did not answer. As well she knew, she did not need to. Her mother, once started on this subject, asked only for a listener. Wearily the girl rose to her feet and began to clear the table.

"And it is n't as if he did n't have his hands full, just running over full with his business and all," continued Mrs. Raymond. "You know how successful he is, Helen. Now there's that club—what was it, president or treasurer that they made him? Anyhow, it was something; and that shows how popular he is. And you know every letter tells us of something new. I 'm sure it is n't any wonder I 'm proud of him; and relieved, too—I did hope some one of my children would amount to something; and I 'm sure Herbert has."

There was a pause. Herbert's sister was washing the dishes now, hurriedly, nervously. Herbert's mother watched her with dissatisfied eyes.

"Now there's you, Helen, and your music," she began again, after a long sigh. "You know how disappointed I was about that."

"Oh, but piano practice does n't help to sell goods across the counter," observed Helen dully. "At least, I never heard that it did."

"'Sell goods,'" moaned the other. "Always something about selling goods! Helen, can't you get your mind for one moment off that dreadful store, and think of something higher?"

"But it's the store that brings us in our bread and butter—and codfish," added Helen, half under her breath.

It was a foolish allusion, born of a much-tried spirit; and Helen regretted the words the moment they had left her lips.

"Yes, that's exactly what it brings—codfish," gloomed Mrs. Raymond. "I'm glad you at least realize that."

There was no reply. Helen was working faster now. Her cheeks were pink, and her hands trembled. As soon as possible she piled Mrs. Mason's dinner dishes neatly on the tray and hurried with them to the outer door of the suite.

"Now, Helen, don't stay," called her mother. "You know how much I'm alone, and I just simply can't go to bed yet. I'm not one bit sleepy."

"No, mother." The voice was calm, and the door shut quietly; but in the hall Helen paused at the head of the stairs, flushed and palpitating.

"I wonder—if it would do any good—if I should—throw them!" she choked hysterically, the tray raised high in her hands. Then with a little shamed sob she lowered the tray and hurried downstairs to the apartment below.

"It's only me, Mrs. Mason, with the dishes," she said a moment later, as her neighbor peered out into the hall in answer to the knock at the door. "I'm a little late to-night."

"Oh, to be sure, Miss Raymond; come in—come in. Why, child, what ails you?" cried the woman, as Helen stepped into the light.

"Ails me? Why, nothing," laughed the girl evasively. "Shall I put the things here?"

As she set the tray down and turned to go, the elder woman, by a sudden movement, confronted her.

"See here, Miss Helen, it ain't none o' my business, I know, but I've just got to speak. Your eyes are all teary, and your cheeks have got two red spots in 'em. You've been cryin'. I know you have. You're so thin I could just blow you over with a good big breath. And I know what's the matter. You're all wore out. You 're doin' too much. No mortal woman can work both day and night!"

"But I don't—quite," stammered the girl "Besides, there is so much to be done. You know, mother—though she isn't very sick—can do but little for herself."

"Yes, I know she don't—seem to. But is n't there some one else that could help?"

The girl stirred restlessly. Her eyes sought for a means of escape.

"Why, no, of course not. There is n't any one," she murmured. "You are very kind, really, Mrs. Mason, but I must go—now."

The other did not move. She was standing directly before the hall door.

"There 's—your brother."

The girl lifted her head quickly. A look that was almost fear came into her eyes.

"Why, how did you know that I had—a brother?"

"Know it!" scoffed Mrs. Mason. "I have known your mother for a year—ever since she moved here; and as if a body could know her and not hear of him! He's the very apple of her eye. Why can't he—help? Would n't he, if he knew?"

"Why, Mrs. Mason, of course! He has—he does," declared the girl quickly, the red deepening in her cheeks. "He—he sent her money only to-day."

"Yes, I know; she told me—of that." Mrs. Mason's voice was significant in its smoothness. "Your mother said she was going to get her—a tie."

"Yes, a tie," repeated Helen, with feverish lightness; "lace, you know. Mother does so love pretty things! Oh, and by the way," hurried on the girl breathlessly, "if you don't mind—about the dinners, you know. Mother does n't care for codfish-and-cream, and if you could just substitute something else, I'll pay more, of course! I'd expect to do that. I've been thinking for some time that you ought to have at least ten cents a day more—if you could manage—on that. And—thank you; if you would remember about—the codfish, and now I really must—go!" she finished. And before Mrs. Mason knew quite what had happened a flying figure had darted by her through the half-open doorway.

"Well, of all things! Now what have I said?" muttered the puzzled woman, staring after her visitor. "Ten cents a day more, indeed! And where, for the land's sake, is the poor lamb going to find that?"

Long hours later in the Raymond flat, after the mending was done, the waist ironed, and the mother's querulous tongue had been silenced by sleep, the "poor lamb" sat down with her little account book and tried to discover just that—where she was going to find the extra ten cents a day to buy off Mrs. Mason's codfish.

It did not rain the next morning. The sun shone, indeed, as if it never had rained, and never would rain. In Helen Raymond's soul a deeper shame than ever sent the blue devils skulking into the farthermost corners—as if it were anything but a matter for the heartiest congratulations that one's mother had at least one child who had proved not to be a disappointment to her! And very blithely, to cheat the last one of the little indigo spirits, the girl resolutely uptilted her chin, and began her day.

It was not unlike the days that had gone before. There was the same apologetic rush in the morning, the same monotonous succession of buyers and near-buyers at the counter, the same glitter and sparkle and chatter—the youth, and love, and laughter. Then at night came the surprise.

Helen Raymond went home to find the little flat dominated by a new presence, a presence so big and breezy that unconsciously she sniffed the air as if she were entering a pine grove instead of a stuffy, four-room city flat.

"Helen, he knows Herbert, my Herbert," announced Mrs. Raymond rapturously; and as she seemed to think no further introduction was necessary, the young man rose to his feet and added with a smile:—

"My name is Carroll—Jack Carroll; Miss Raymond, I suppose. Your brother—er—suggested that I call, as I was in the city."

"Of course you'd call," chirruped Mrs. Raymond. "As if we were n't always glad to see any friend of my boy's. Helen, why don't you say something? Why don't you welcome Mr. Carroll?"

"I have n't had much chance yet, mother," smiled the girl, in some embarrassment. "Perhaps I—I have n't caught my breath."

"Not that Mr. Carroll ought to mind, of course," resumed Mrs. Raymond plaintively. "And he won't when he knows you, and sees how moderate you are. You know Herbert is so quick," she added, turning to Herbert's friend.

"Is he?" murmured the man; and at the odd something in his voice Helen looked up quickly to find the stranger's eyes full upon her. "You see, I'm not sure, after all, that I do know Herbert," he continued lightly, still with that odd something in his voice. "Herbert's mother has been telling me lots of things—about Herbert."

"Yes; we've been having such a nice visit together," sighed Mrs. Raymond. "You see, he understands, Helen,—Mr. Carroll does."

Again Helen glanced up and met the stranger's eyes. She caught her breath sharply and looked away.

"Of course he understands," she cried, in a voice that was not quite steady. "If he knew you better, mother dear, he would know that there could n't be any nicer subject than Herbert to talk about—Herbert and the fine things he has done!" There was no bitterness, no sarcasm, in tone or manner. There was only a frightened little pleading, a warding-off, as of some unknown, threatening danger. "Of course, Mr. Carroll understands," she finished; and this time she turned and looked straight into the stranger's eyes unswervingly.

"I understand," he nodded gravely.

And yet—it was not of Herbert that he talked during the next ten minutes. It was of Mrs. Raymond and her daughter, of their life at home and at the store. It was a gay ten minutes, for the man laughed at the whimsical playfulness with which Miss Raymond set off the pitiful little tale of the daily struggle for existence. If he detected the nervousness in the telling, he did not show it. He did frown once; but that was when Herbert's mother sighed apologetically:—

"You must n't mind all she says, Mr. Carroll. Helen never did seem to realize the serious side of life, nor what I suffer; but that is Helen's way."

"After all, it must be a way that helps smooth things over some," he had retorted warmly.

And there the matter had ended—except in Helen's memory: there it bade fair to remain long, indeed.

At the end of the ten minutes, Herbert's friend rose to his feet and said that he must go. He added that he would come again, if he might; and to Miss Raymond he said very low—but very impressively—that she would see him soon, very soon. It was no surprise, therefore, to Helen, to encounter the big, tall fellow not twenty feet from her doorway when she started for the store the next morning.

His clean-cut face flushed painfully as he advanced; but the girl did not change color.

"Good-morning. I thought you'd do this," she began hurriedly. "We can talk as we walk. Now, tell me, please, quick. What is it about—Herbert?"

"Then you—know?"

"Not much; only suspect. I know everything is n't quite—right."

"But your mother doesn't know—even that much?"

"No, no! You saw that, didn't you? I was so glad you did, and did n't speak! He is her pet, and she's so proud of him!"

"Yes, I know," nodded the man grimly. "I saw—that."

The girl lifted her chin.

"And mother has a right to be proud of him. Herbert is fine. It is only that—that—" She weakened perceptibly. "Was it—money?" she faltered.

"Y-yes." Carroll spoke with evident reluctance. His eyes looked down almost tenderly at the girl with the still bravely uptilted chin. "It—it is rather serious this time. He asked me to call and—and make it plain to you. I had told him I was coming up to town on business, and I promised. But—good Heavens, Miss Raymond, I—I can't tell you!"

"But you must. I'll have to know," cried the girl sharply. All the pride had fled now. "And you need n't fear. I know what it is. He wants money to settle debts. I've sent it before—once. That is it—that is it?"

"Yes, only it's—it's a particularly bad job this time," stammered the other. "You see, it—it's club money—a little club among the boys, of which he is treasurer—and he sto—used part of the—funds."

The man choked over the wretched tale, and instinctively laid his hand on the girl's arm. She would faint or cry, of course, and he wondered what he could do. But there was no fainting, no crying. There was only the pitiful whitening of a set little face, and the tense question:

"How much—was it?"

Carroll sighed in relief.

"Miss Raymond, you're a—a brick—to take it like that," he cried brokenly. "I don't know another girl who— It was—well, a hundred dollars will cover it; but he's got to have it—to-morrow."

"I'll send it."

"But how—forgive me, Miss Raymond, but last night you were telling me that—that—" He flushed, and came to a helpless pause.

"How can I get it?" she supplied wearily. "We've a little in the bank—a very little laid by for a rainy day; but it will cover that. We never think of touching it, of course, for—for ordinary things. But—this." She shuddered, and Carroll saw her shabbily gloved hand clinch spasmodically. "Mr. Carroll, how did he come to—do it?"

It was a short story, soon told—the usual story of a pleasure-loving, thoughtless youth, tempted beyond his strength. Carroll softened it where he could, and ended with:—

"I asked Bert to let me make it good, somehow, but he would n't, Miss Raymond. He—he just would n't!"

"Of course he would n't," exclaimed the girl sharply. Then, in a softer voice: "Thank you, just the same. But, don't you see? 'T would have done no good. I'd have had to pay you. . . . No, no, don't say any more, please," she begged, in answer to the quick words that leaped to his lips. "You have been kind—very kind. Now, just one kindness more, if you will," she hurried on. "Come tonight. I must leave you now—it's the store, just around the corner. But to-night I 'll have the money. It's in my name, and I can get it without mother's—knowing. You understand? Without—mother's—knowing."

"I understand," he nodded gravely, as he wrung her hand and turned chokingly away.

When Helen reached home that night she found the little flat dominated once again by the big, breezy presence of Herbert's friend.

"I've been telling him more about Herbert," Mrs. Raymond began joyously, as soon as Helen entered the room. "I've been telling him about his letters to me, and the peppermints and the lace tie, you know, and how good Herbert is to me. We've had such a nice visit!"

"Have you? I'm so glad!" returned Helen, a little unsteadily; and only the man knew the meaning of the quick look of relieved gratitude that came to her face.

At the door some minutes later, Carroll found a small packet thrust into his fingers. He caught both the hand and the packet in a firm clasp.

"You're true blue, little girl," he breathed tremulously, "and I'm going to keep tabs on Bert after this. I 'll make him keep straight for her—and for you. He's only a bit weak, after all. And you'll see me again soon—very soon," he finished, as he crushed her hand in a grip that hurt. Then he turned and stumbled away, as if his eyes did not see quite clearly.

"Now, wasn't he nice?" murmured Mrs. Raymond, as the girl closed the hall door. "And—didn't he say that he'd call again sometime?"

"Yes, mother."

"Well, I'm sure, I hope he will. He isn't Herbert, of course, but he knows Herbert."

"He—does, mother." There was a little break in Helen's voice, but Mrs. Raymond did not notice it.

"Dearie me! Well, he's gone now, and I am hungry. My dinner didn't seem to please, somehow."

"Why, mother, it was n't—codfish; was it?"

"N-no. It was chicken. But then, like enough it will be codfish to-morrow."

Helen Raymond dreamed that night, and she dreamed of love, and youth, and laughter. But it was not the shimmer of spangled tulle nor the chatter of merry girls that called it forth. It was the look in a pair of steadfast blue eyes, and the grip of a strong man's hand.



A Mushroom of Collingsville

There were three men in the hotel office that Monday evening: Jared Parker, the proprietor; Seth Wilber, town authority on all things past and present; and John Fletcher, known in Collingsville as "The Squire"—possibly because of his smattering of Blackstone; probably because of his silk hat and five-thousand-dollar bank account. Each of the three men eyed with unabashed curiosity the stranger in the doorway.

"Good-evening, gentlemen," began a deprecatory voice. "I—er—this is the hotel?"

In a trice Jared Parker was behind the short counter.

"Certainly, sir. Room, sir?" he said suavely, pushing an open book and a pen halfway across the counter.

"H'm, yes, I—I suppose so," murmured the stranger, as he hesitatingly crossed the floor. "H'm; one must sleep, you know," he added, as he examined the point of the pen.

"Certainly, sir, certainly," agreed Jared, whose face was somewhat twisted in his endeavors to smile on the prospective guest and frown at the two men winking and gesticulating over by the stove.

"H'm," murmured the stranger a third time, as he signed his name with painstaking care. "There, that's settled! Now where shall I find Professor Marvin, please?"

"Professor Marvin!" repeated Jared stupidly.

"Yes; Professor George Marvin," bowed the stranger.

"Why, there ain't no Professor Marvin, that I know of."

"Mebbe he means old Marvin's son," interposed Seth Wilber with a chuckle.

The stranger turned inquiringly.

"His name's 'George,' all right," continued Seth, with another chuckle, "but I never heard of his professin' anythin'—'nless 't was laziness."

The stranger's face showed a puzzled frown.

"Oh—but—I mean the man who discovered that ants and—"

"Good gorry!" interrupted Seth, with a groan. "If it's anythin' about bugs an' snakes, he's yer man! Ain't he?" he added, turning to his friends for confirmation.

Jared nodded, and Squire Fletcher cleared his throat.

"He's done nothing but play with bugs ever since he came into the world," said the Squire ponderously. "A most unfortunate case of an utterly worthless son born to honest, hard-working parents. He'll bring up in the poor-house yet—or in a worse place. Only think of it—a grown man spending his time flat on his stomach in the woods counting ants' legs and bugs' eyes!"

"Oh, but—" The stranger stopped. The hotel-keeper had the floor.

"It began when he wa'n't more'n a baby. He pestered the life out of his mother bringing snakes into the sittin'-room, and carrying worms in his pockets. The poor woman was most mortified to death about it. Why, once when the parson was there, George used his hat to catch butterflies with—smashed it, too."

"Humph!" snapped the Squire. "The little beast filled one of my overshoes once, to make a swimming-tank for his dirty little fish."

"They could n't do nothin' with him," chimed in Seth Wilber. "An' when he was older, 'twas worse. If his father set him ter hoein' pertaters, the little scamp would be found h'istin' up old rocks an' boards ter see the critters under 'em crawl."

"Yes, but—" Again the stranger was silenced.

"And in school he did n't care nothing about 'rithmetic nor jography," interrupted Jared. "He was forever scarin' the teacher into fits bringin' in spiders an' caterpillars, an' asking questions about 'em."

"Gorry! I guess ye can't tell me no news about George Marvin's schoolin'," snarled Seth Wilber—"me, that's got a son Tim what was in the same class with him. Why, once the teacher set 'em in the same seat; but Tim could n't stand that—what with the worms an' spiders—an' he kicked so hard the teacher swapped 'round."

"Yes; well—er—extraordinary, extraordinary—very!—so it is," murmured the stranger, backing toward the door. The next moment he was out on the street asking the first person he met for the way to George Marvin's.

On Tuesday night a second stranger stopped at the hotel and asked where he could find Professor Marvin. Jared, Seth, and Squire Fletcher were there as before; but this time their derisive stories—such as they managed to tell—fell on deaf ears. The stranger signed his name with a flourish, engaged his room, laughed good-naturedly at the three men—and left them still talking.

On Wednesday two more strangers arrived, and on Thursday, another one. All, with varying manner but unvarying promptitude, called for Professor George Marvin.

Jared, Seth, and the Squire were dumfounded. Their mystification culminated in one grand chorus of amazement when, on Friday, the Squire came to the hotel hugging under his arm a daily newspaper.

"Just listen to this!" he blurted out, banging his paper down on the desk and spreading it open with shaking hands. As he read, he ran his finger down the column, singling out a phrase here and there, and stumbling a little over unfamiliar words.

The recent ento-mo-logical discoveries of Professor George Marvin have set the scientific world in a flurry. . . . Professor Marvin is now unanimously conceded to be the greatest entomologist living. He knows his Hex-a-poda and Myri-a-poda as the most of us know our alphabet. . . . The humble home of the learned man has become a Mecca, toward which both great and small of the scientific world are bending eager steps. . . . The career of Marvin reads like a romance, and he has fought his way to his present enviable position by sheer grit, and ability, having had to combat with all the narrow criticism and misconceptions usual in the case of a progressive thinker in a small town. Indeed, it is said that even now his native village fails to recognize the honor that is hers.

"Jehoshaphat!" exclaimed Seth Wilber faintly.

Fletcher folded the paper and brought his fist down hard upon it.

"There's more—a heap more," he cried excitedly.

"But how—what—" stammered Jared, whose wits were slow on untrodden paths.

"It's old Marvin's son—don't you see?" interrupted Squire Fletcher impatiently. "He 's big!—famous!"

"'Famous'! What for?"

"Zounds, man!—did n't you hear?" snarled the Squire. "He's a famous entomologist. It's his bugs and spiders."

"Gosh!" ejaculated Jared, his hand seeking the bald spot on the back of his head. "Who'd ever have thought it? Gorry! Let's have a look at it." And he opened the paper and peered at the print with near-sighted eyes.

It was on Monday, three days later, that Jared, Seth, and the Squire were once more accosted in the hotel office by a man they did not know.

"Good-evening, gentlemen, I—"

"You don't even have to say it," cut in Jared, with a nourish of both hands. "We know why you're here without your telling."

"An' you've come ter the right place, sir—the right place," declared Seth Wilber, pompously. "What Professor Marvin don't know about bugs an' spiders ain't wuth knowin'. I tell ye, sir, he's the biggest entymollygist that there is ter be found."

"That he is," affirmed the Squire, with an indulgently superior smile toward Wilber—"the very greatest entomologist living," he corrected carefully. "And no wonder, sir; he's studied bugs from babyhood. I've known him all his life—all his life, sir, and I always said he'd make his mark in the world."

"Oh, but—" began the stranger.

"'Member when he took the parson's hat to catch butterflies in?" chuckled Jared, speaking to the Squire, but throwing furtive glances toward the stranger to make sure of his attention. "Gorry—but he was a cute one! Wish 't had been my hat. I 'd 'a' had it framed an' labeled, an' hung up on the wall there."

"Yes, I remember," nodded the Squire; then he added with a complacent smile: "The mischievous little lad used my overshoe for a fish-pond once—I have that overshoe yet."

"Have ye now?" asked Seth Wilber enviously. "I want ter know! Well, anyhow, my Tim, he went ter school with him, an' set in the same seat," continued Seth, turning toward the stranger. "Tim's got an old writin'-book with one leaf all sp'iled 'cause one of young Marvin's spiders got into the inkwell an' then did a cake-walk across the page. Tim, he got a lickin' fur it then, but he says he would n't give up that page now fur forty lickin's."

The stranger shifted from one foot to the other.

"Yes, yes," he began, "but—"

"You'd oughter seen him when old Marvin used ter send him put to hoe pertaters," cut in Jared gleefully. "Gorry!—young as he was, he was all bugs then. He was smart enough to know that there was lots of curious critters under sticks an' stones that had laid still for a long time. I tell yer, there wa'n't much that got away from his bright eyes—except the pertaters!—he did n't bother them none."

A prolonged chuckle and a loud laugh greeted this sally. In the pause that followed the stranger cleared his throat determinedly.

"See here, gentlemen," he began pompously, with more than a shade of irritation in his voice. "Will you allow me to speak? And will you inform me what all this is about?"

"About? Why, it's about Professor George Marvin, to be sure," rejoined Squire Fletcher. "Pray, what else should it be about?"

"I guess you know what it's about all right, stranger," chuckled Seth Wilber, with a shrewd wink. "You can't fool us. Mebbe you're one o' them fellers what thinks we don't know enough ter 'preciate a big man when we've got him. No, sir-ree! We ain't that kind. Come, ye need n't play off no longer. We know why you're here, an' we're glad ter see ye, an' we're proud ter show ye the way ter our Professor's. Come on—'t ain't fur."

The stranger drew back. His face grew red, then purple.

"I should like to know," he sputtered thickly, "I should like to know if you really think that I—I have come 'way up here to see this old bug man. Why, man alive, I never even heard of him!"

"What!" ejaculated three disbelieving voices, their owners too dumfounded to take exceptions to the sneer in tone and words. "Zounds, man!—what did you come for, then?" demanded the Squire.

The stranger raised his chin.

"See here, who do you think I am?" he demanded pompously, as he squared himself before them in all his glory of checkered trousers, tall hat, and flaunting watch-chain. "Who do you think I am? I am Theophilus Augustus Smythe, sir, advance agent and head manager of the Kalamazoo None-Like-It Salve Company. I came, sir, to make arrangements for their arrival to-morrow morning. They show in this town to-morrow night. Now perhaps you understand, sir, that my business is rather more important than hunting up any old bug man that ever lived!" And he strode to the desk and picked up the pen.

For a moment there was absolute silence; then Seth Wilber spoke.

"Well, by ginger!—you—you'd oughter have come ter see the Professor, anyhow," he muttered, weakly, as he fell back in his chair. "Say, Squire, 'member when Marvin—"

Over at the desk Theophilus Augustus Smythe crossed his t with so violent an energy that the pen sputtered and made two blots.



That Angel Boy

"I am so glad you consented to stay over until Monday, auntie, for now you can hear our famous boy choir," Ethel had said at the breakfast table that Sunday morning.

"Humph! I've heard of 'em," Ann Wetherby had returned crisply, "but I never took much stock in 'em. A choir—made o' boys—just as if music could come from yellin', hootin' boys!"

An hour later at St. Mark's, the softly swelling music of the organ was sending curious little thrills tingling to Miss Wetherby's finger tips. The voluntary had become a mere whisper when she noticed that the great doors near her were swinging outward. The music ceased, and there was a moment's breathless hush—then faintly in the distance sounded the first sweet notes of the processional.

Ethel stirred slightly and threw a meaning glance at her aunt. The woman met the look unflinchingly.

"Them ain't no boys!" she whispered tartly.

Nearer and nearer swelled the chorus until the leaders reached the open doors. Miss Wetherby gave one look at the white-robed singers, then she reached over and clutched Ethel's fingers.

"They be!—and in their nighties, too!" she added in a horrified whisper.

One of the boys had a solo in the anthem that morning, and as the clear, pure soprano rose higher and higher, Miss Wetherby gazed in undisguised awe at the young singer. She noted the soulful eyes uplifted devoutly, and the broad forehead framed in clustering brown curls. To Miss Wetherby it was the face of an angel; and as the glorious voice rose and swelled and died away in exquisite melody, two big tears rolled down her cheeks and splashed on the shining, black silk gown.

At dinner that day Miss Wetherby learned that the soloist was "Bobby Sawyer." She also learned that he was one of Ethel's "fresh-air" mission children, and that, as yet, there was no place for him to go for a vacation.

"That angel child with the heavenly voice—and no one to take him in?" Miss Wetherby bethought herself of her own airy rooms and flowering meadows, and snapped her lips together with sudden determination.

"I'll take him!" she announced tersely, and went home the next day to prepare for her expected guest.

Early in the morning of the first Monday in July, Miss Wetherby added the finishing touches to the dainty white bedroom upstairs.

"Dear little soul—I hope he'll like it!" she murmured, giving a loving pat to the spotless, beruffled pillow shams; then her approving eyes fell upon the "Morning Prayer" hanging at the foot of the bed. "There! them sweet little cherubs sayin' their prayers is jest the thing fur the little saint to see when he first wakes ev'ry mornin'. Little angel!" she finished softly.

On the table in the comer were hymn books, the great red-and-gold family Bible, and a "Baxter's Saint's Rest"—the only reading matter suited to Miss Wetherby's conception of the mind behind those soulful orbs upraised in devout adoration.

Just before Ann started for the station Tommy Green came over to leave his pet dog, Rover, for Miss Wetherby's "fresh-air" boy to play with.

"Now, Thomas Green," remonstrated Ann severely, "you can take that dirty dog right home. I won't have him around. Besides, Robert Sawyer ain't the kind of a boy you be. He don't care fur sech things—I know he don't."

Half an hour later, Ann Wetherby, her heart thumping loudly against her ribs, anxiously scanned the passengers as they alighted at Slocumville Station. There were not many—an old man, two girls, three or four women, and a small, dirty boy with a dirtier dog and a brown paper parcel in his arms.

He had not come!

Miss Wetherby held her breath and looked furtively at the small boy. There was nothing familiar in his appearance, she was thankful to say! He must be another one for somebody else. Still, perhaps he might know something about her own angel boy—she would ask.

Ann advanced warily, with a disapproving eye on the dog.

"Little boy, can you tell me why Robert Sawyer did n't come?" she asked severely.

The result of her cautious question disconcerted her not a little. The boy dropped the dog and bundle to the platform, threw his hat in the air, and capered about in wild glee.

"Hi, there. Bones! We're all right! Golly—but I thought we was side-tracked, fur sure!"

Miss Wetherby sank in limp dismay to a box of freight near by—the bared head disclosed the clustering brown curls and broad forehead, and the eyes uplifted to the whirling hat completed the tell-tale picture.

The urchin caught the hat deftly on the back of his head, and pranced up to Ann with his hands in his pockets.

"Gee-whiz! marm—but I thought you'd flunked fur sure. I reckoned me an' Bones was barkin' up the wrong tree this time. It looked as if we'd come to a jumpin'-off place, an' you'd given us the slip. I'm Bob, myself, ye see, an' I've come all right!"

"Are you Robert Sawyer?" she gasped.

"Jest ye hear that, Bones!" laughed the boy shrilly, capering round and round the small dog again. "I's 'Robert' now—do ye hear?" Then he whirled back to his position in front of Miss Wetherby, and made a low bow. "Robert Sawyer, at yer service," he announced in mock pomposity. "Oh, I say," he added with a quick change of position, "yer 'd better call me 'Bob'; I ain't uster nothin' else. I'd fly off the handle quicker 'n no time, puttin' on airs like that."

Miss Wetherby's back straightened. She made a desperate attempt to regain her usual stern self-possession.

"I shall call ye 'Robert,' boy. I don't like—er—that other name."

There was a prolonged stare and a low whistle from the boy. Then he turned to pick up his bundle.

"Come on, Bones, stir yer stumps; lively, now! This 'ere lady 's a-goin' ter take us ter her shebang ter stay mos' two weeks. Gee-whiz! Bones, ain't this great!" And with one bound he was off the platform and turning a series of somersaults on the soft grass followed by the skinny, mangy dog which was barking itself nearly wild with joy.

Ann Wetherby gazed at the revolving mass of heads and legs of boy and dog in mute despair, then she rose to her feet and started down the street.

"You c'n foller me," she said sternly, without turning her head toward the culprits on the grass.

The boy came upright instantly.

"Do ye stump it, marm?"

"What?" she demanded, stopping short in her stupefaction.

"Do ye stump it—hoof it—foot it, I mean," he enumerated quickly, in a praise-worthy attempt to bring his vocabulary to the point where it touched hers.

"Oh—yes; 't ain't fur," vouchsafed Ann feebly.

Bobby trotted alongside of Miss Wetherby, meekly followed by the dog. Soon the boy gave his trousers an awkward hitch, and glanced sideways up at the woman.

"Oh, I say, marm, I think it's bully of yer ter let me an' Bones come," he began sheepishly. "It looked 's if our case 'd hang fire till the crack o' doom; there wa'n't no one ter have us. When Miss Ethel, she told me her aunt 'd take us, it jest struck me all of a heap. I tell ye, me an' Bones made tracks fur Slocumville 'bout's soon as they 'd let us."

"I hain't no doubt of it!" retorted Ann, looking back hopelessly at the dog.

"Ye see," continued the boy confidentially, "there ain't ev'ry one what likes boys, an'—hi, there!—go it, Bones!" he suddenly shrieked, and scampered wildly after the dog which had dashed into the bushes by the side of the road. Ann did not see her young charge again until she had been home half an hour. He came in at the gate, then, cheerfully smiling, the dog at his heels.

"Jiminy Christmas!" he exclaimed, "I begun ter think I 'd lost ye, but I remembered yer last name was the same's Miss Ethel's, an' a boy—Tommy Green, around the corner—he told me where ye lived. And, oh, I say, me an' Bones are a-goin' off with him an' Rover after I 've had somethin' ter eat—'t is mos' grub time, ain't it?" he added anxiously.

Ann sighed in a discouraged way.

"Yes, I s'pose 't is. I left some beans a-bakin', and dinner'll be ready pretty quick. You can come upstairs with me, Robert, an' I'll show ye where yer goin' ter sleep," she finished, with a sinking heart, as she thought of those ruffled pillow shams.

Bobby followed Miss Wetherby into the dainty chamber. He gave one look, and puckered up his lips into a long, low whistle.

"Well, I'll be flabbergasted! Oh, I say, now, ye don't expect me ter stay in all this fuss an' fixin's!" he exclaimed ruefully.

"It—it is the room I calculated fur ye," said Ann, with almost a choke in her voice.

The boy looked up quickly and something rose within him that he did not quite understand.

"Oh, well, ye know, it's slick as a whistle an' all that, but I ain't uster havin' it laid on so thick. I ain't no great shakes, ye know, but I'll walk the chalk all right this time. Golly! Ain't it squashy, though!" he exclaimed, as with a run and a skip he landed straight in the middle of the puffy bed.

With one agitated hand Miss Wetherby rescued her pillow shams, and with the other, forcibly removed the dog which had lost no time in following his master into the feathery nest. Then she abruptly left the room; she could not trust herself to speak.

Miss Wetherby did not see much of her guest that afternoon; he went away immediately after dinner and did not return until supper time. Then he was so completely tired out that he had but two words in reply to Miss Wetherby's question.

"Did ye have a good time?" she asked wistfully.

"You bet!"

After supper he went at once to his room; but it was not until Miss Wetherby ceased to hear the patter of his feet on the floor above that she leaned back in her chair with a sigh of relief.

When Ann went upstairs to make the bed that Tuesday morning, the sight that met her eyes struck terror to her heart. The bedclothes were scattered in wild confusion half over the room. The washbowl, with two long singing-books across it, she discovered to her horror, was serving as a prison for a small green snake. The Bible and the remaining hymn books, topped by "Baxter's Saints' Rest," lay in a suspicious-looking pile on the floor. Under these Miss Wetherby did not look. After her experience with the snake and the washbowl, her nerves were not strong enough. She recoiled in dismay, also, from the sight of two yellow, paper-covered books on the table, flaunting shamelessly the titles: "Jack; the Pirate of Red Island," and "Haunted by a Headless Ghost."

She made the bed as rapidly as possible, with many a backward glance at the book-covered washbowl, then she went downstairs and shook and brushed herself with little nervous shudders.

Ann Wetherby never forgot that Fourth of July, nor, for that matter, the days that immediately followed. She went about with both ears stuffed with cotton, and eyes that were ever on the alert for all manner of creeping, crawling things in which Bobby's soul delighted.

The boy, reinforced by the children of the entire neighborhood, held a circus in Miss Wetherby's wood-shed, and instituted a Wild Indian Camp in her attic. The poor woman was quite powerless, and remonstrated all in vain. The boy was so cheerfully good-tempered under her sharpest words that the victory was easily his.

But on Saturday when Miss Wetherby, returning from a neighbor's, found two cats, four dogs, and two toads tied to her parlor chairs, together with three cages containing respectively a canary, a parrot, and a squirrel (collected from obliging households), she rebelled in earnest and summoned Bobby to her side.

"Robert, I've stood all I'm a-goin' ter. You've got to go home Monday. Do you hear?"

"Oh, come off, Miss Wetherby, 't ain't only a menag'ry, an' you don't use the room none."

Miss Wetherby's mouth worked convulsively.

"Robert!" she gasped, as soon as she could find her voice, "I never, never heard of such dreadful goin's-on! You certainly can't stay here no longer," she continued sternly, resolutely trying to combat the fatal weakness that always overcame her when the boy lifted those soulful eyes to her face. "Now take them horrid critters out of the parlor this minute. You go home Monday—now mind what I say!"

An hour later, Miss Wetherby had a caller. It was the chorister of her church choir. The man sat down gingerly on one of the slippery haircloth chairs, and proceeded at once to state his business.

"I understand, Miss Wetherby, that you have an—er—young singer with you."

Miss Wetherby choked, and stammered "Yes."

"He sings—er—very well, does n't he?"

The woman was still more visibly embarrassed.

"I—I don't know," she murmured; then in stronger tones, "The one that looked like him did."

"Are there two?" he asked in stupid amazement.

Miss Wetherby laughed uneasily, then she sighed.

"Well, ter tell the truth, Mr. Wiggins, I s'pose there ain't; but sometimes I think there must be. I'll send Robert down ter the rehearsal to-night, and you can see what ye can do with him." And with this Mr. Wiggins was forced to be content.

Bobby sang on Sunday. The little church was full to the doors. Bobby was already famous in the village, and people had a lively curiosity as to what this disquieting collector of bugs and snakes might offer in the way of a sacred song. The "nighty" was, perforce, absent, much to the sorrow of Ann; but the witchery of the glorious voice entered again into the woman's soul, and, indeed, sent the entire congregation home in an awed silence that was the height of admiring homage.

At breakfast time Monday morning, Bobby came downstairs with his brown paper parcel under his arm. Ann glanced at his woeful face, then went out into the kitchen and slammed the oven door sharply.

"Well, marm, I've had a bully time—-sure's a gun," said the boy wistfully, following her.

Miss Wetherby opened the oven door and shut it with a second bang; then she straightened herself and crossed the room to the boy's side.

"Robert," she began with assumed sternness, trying to hide her depth of feeling, "you ain't a-goin' home ter-day—now mind what I say! Take them things upstairs. Quick—breakfast's all ready!"

A great light transfigured Bobby's face. He tossed his bundle into a corner and fell upon Miss Wetherby with a bearlike hug.

"Gee-whiz! marm—but yer are a brick! An' I 'll run yer errands an' split yer wood, an' I won't take no dogs an' cats in the parlor, an' I'll do ev'rythin'—ev'rythin' ye want me to! Oh, golly—golly!—I'm goin' ter stay—I'm goin' ter stay!" And Bobby danced out of the house into the yard there to turn somersault after somersault in hilarious glee.

A queer choking feeling came into Ann Wetherby's throat. She seemed still to feel the loving clasp of those small young arms.

"Well, he—he's part angel, anyhow," she muttered, drawing a long breath and watching with tear-dimmed eyes Bobby's antics on the grass outside.

And Bobby stayed—not only Monday, but through four other long days—days which he filled to the brim with fun and frolic and joyous shouts as before—and yet with a change.

The shouts were less shrill and the yells less prolonged when Bobby was near the house. No toads nor cats graced the parlor floor, and no bugs nor snakes tortured Miss Wetherby's nerves when Bobby's bed was made each day. The kitchen woodbox threatened to overflow—so high were its contents piled—and Miss Wetherby was put to her wits' end to satisfy Bobby's urgent clamorings for errands to run.

And when the four long days were over and Saturday came, a note—and not Bobby—was sent to the city. The note was addressed to "Miss Ethel Wetherby," and this is what Ethel's amazed eyes read:

My Dear Niece:—You can tell that singer man of Robert's that he is not going back any more. He is going to live with me and go to school next winter. I am going to adopt him for my very own. His father and mother are dead—he said so.

I must close now, for Robert is hungry, and wants his dinner.

Love to all, ANN WETHERBY.



The Lady in Black

The house was very still. In the little room over the porch the Lady in Black sat alone. Near her a child's white dress lay across a chair, and on the floor at her feet a tiny pair of shoes, stubbed at the toes, lay where an apparently hasty hand had thrown them. A doll, head downward, hung over a chair-back, and a toy soldier with drawn sword dominated the little stand by the bed. And everywhere was silence—the peculiar silence that comes only to a room where the clock has ceased to tick.

The clock—such a foolish little clock of filigree gilt—stood on the shelf at the foot of the bed; and as the Lady in Black looked at it she remembered the wave of anger that had surged over her when she had thrust out her hand and silenced it that night three months before. It had seemed so monstrous to her that the pulse in that senseless thing of gilt should throb on unheeding while below, on the little white bed, that other pulse was so pitiably still. Hence she had thrust out her hand and stopped it. It had been silent ever since—and it should remain silent, too. Of what possible use were the hours it would tick away now? As if anything mattered, with little Kathleen lying out there white and still under the black earth!

"Muvver!"

The Lady in Black stirred restlessly, and glanced toward the closed door. Behind it she knew was a little lad with wide blue eyes and a dimpling mouth who wanted her; but she wished he would not call her by that name. It only reminded her of those other little lips—silent now.

"Muvver!" The voice was more insistent.

The Lady in Black did not answer. He might go away, she thought, if she did not reply.

There was a short silence, then the door-knob rattled and turned half around under the touch of plainly unskilled fingers. The next moment the door swung slowly back on its hinges and revealed at full length the little figure in the Russian suit.

"Pe-eek!" It was a gurgling cry of joyful discovery, but it was followed almost instantly by silence. The black-garbed, unsmiling woman did not invite approach, and the boy fell back at his first step. He hesitated, then spoke, tentatively, "I's—here."

It was, perhaps, the worst thing he could have said. To the Lady in Black it was a yet more bitter reminder of that other one who was not there. She gave a sharp cry and covered her face with her hands.

"Bobby, Bobby, how can you taunt me with it?" she moaned, in a frenzy of unreasoning grief. "Go away—go away! I want to be alone—alone!"

All the brightness fled from the boy's face. His mouth was no longer dimpled, and his eyes showed a grieved hurt in their depths. Very slowly he turned away. At the top of the stairs he stopped and looked back. The door was still open, and the Lady in Black still sat with her hands over her face. He waited, but she did not move; then, with a half-stifled sob, he dropped on the top step and began to bump down the stairs, one at a time.

Long minutes afterward the Lady in Black raised her head and saw him through the window. He was down in the yard with his father, having a frolic under the apple tree.

A frolic!

The Lady in Black looked at them with somber eyes, and her mouth hardened at the corners. Bobby down there in the yard could laugh and dance and frolic. Bobby had some one to play with him, some one to love him and care for him; while out there on the hillside Kathleen was alone—all alone. Kathleen had no one—

With a little cry the Lady in Black sprang to her feet and hurried into her own room. Her hands shook as she pinned on her hat and shrouded herself in the long folds of her black veil; but her step was firm as she swept downstairs and out through the hall.

The man under the apple tree rose hurriedly and came forward.

"Helen, dearest,—not again, to-day!" he begged. "Darling, it can't do any good!"

"But she's alone—all alone. You don't seem to think! No one thinks—no one knows how I feel. You don't understand—if you did, you'd come with me. You wouldn't ask me to stay—here!" choked the woman.

"I have been with you, dear," said the man gently. "I 've been with you to-day, and every day, almost, since—since she left us. But it can't do any good—this constant brooding over her grave. It only makes additional sorrow for you, for me, and for Bobby. Bobby is—here, you know, dear!"

"No, no, don't say it," sobbed the woman wildly. "You don't understand—you don't understand!" And she turned and hurried away, a tall black shadow of grief, followed by the anguished eyes of the man, and the wistful puzzled eyes of the boy.

It was not a long walk to the tree-embowered plot of ground where the marble shafts and slabs glistened in the sunlight, and the Lady in Black knew the way; yet she stumbled and reached out blindly, and she fell, as if exhausted, before a little stone marked "Kathleen." Near her a gray-haired woman, with her hands full of pink and white roses, watched her sympathetically. She hesitated, and opened her lips as if she would speak, then she turned slowly and began to arrange her flowers on a grave near by.

At the slight stir the Lady in Black raised her head. For a time she watched in silence; then she threw back her veil and spoke.

"You care, too," she said softly. "You understand. I've seen you here before, I'm sure. And was yours—a little girl?"

The gray-haired woman shook her head.

"No, dearie, it's a little boy—or he was a little boy forty years ago."

"Forty years—so long! How could you have lived forty years—without him?"

Again the little woman shook her head.

"One has to—sometimes, dearie; but this little boy was n't mine. He was none of my kith nor kin."

"But you care—you understand. I 've seen you here so often before."

"Yes. You see, there's no one else to care. But there was once, and I 'm caring now—for her."

"For—her?"

"His mother."

"Oh-h!" It was a tender little cry, full of quick sympathy—the eyes of the Lady in Black were on the stone marked "Kathleen."

"It ain't as if I did n't know how she'd feel," muttered the gray-haired little woman musingly, as she patted her work into completion and turned toward the Lady in Black. "You see, I was nurse to the boy when it happened, and for years afterward I worked in the family; so I know. I saw the whole thing from the beginning, from the very day when the little boy here met with the accident."

"Accident!" It was a sob of anguished sympathy from Kathleen's mother.

"Yes. 'T was a runaway; and he did n't live two days."

"I know—I know!" choked the Lady in Black—yet she was not thinking of the boy and the runaway.

"Things stopped then for my mistress," resumed the little gray-haired woman, after a moment, "and that was the beginning of the end. She had a husband and a daughter, but they did n't count—not either of 'em. Nothin' counted but this little grave out here; and she came and spent hours over it, trimmin' it with flowers and talkin' to it."

The Lady in Black raised her head suddenly and threw a quick glance into the other's face; but the gray-haired woman's eyes were turned away, and after a moment she went on speaking.

"The house got gloomier and gloomier, but she did n't seem to mind. She seemed to want it so. She shut out the sunshine and put away lots of the pictures; and she wouldn't let the pianner be opened at all. She never sat anywhere in the house only in the boy's room, and there everything was just as 'twas when he left it. She would n't let a thing be touched. I wondered afterward that she did n't see where 't was all leadin' to—but she did n't."

"'Leading to'?" The voice shook.

"Yes. I wondered she did n't see she was losin' 'em—that husband and daughter; but she did n't see it."

The Lady in Black sat very still. Even the birds seemed to have stopped their singing. Then the gray-haired woman spoke:

"So, you see, that's why I come and put flowers here—it's for her sake. There's no one else now to care," she sighed, rising to her feet.

"But you haven't told yet—what happened," murmured the Lady in Black, faintly.

"I don't know myself—quite. I know the man went away. He got somethin' to do travelin', so he was n't home much. When he did come he looked sick and bad. There were stories that he wa'n't quite straight always—but maybe that wa'n't true. Anyhow, he come less and less, and he died away—but that was after she died. He's buried over there, beside her and the boy. The girl—well, nobody knows where the girl is. Girls like flowers and sunshine and laughter and young folks, you know, and she did n't get any of them at home. So she went—where she did get 'em, I suppose. Anyhow, nobody knows just where she is now. . . . There, and if I have n't gone and tired you all out with my chatter!" broke off the little gray-haired woman contritely. "I 'm sure I don't know why I got to runnin' on so!"

"No, no—I was glad to hear it," faltered the Lady in Black, rising unsteadily to her feet. Her face had grown white, and her eyes showed a sudden fear. "But I must go now. Thank you." And she turned and hurried away.

The house was very still when the Lady in Black reached home—and she shivered at its silence. Through the hall and up the stairs she went hurriedly, almost guiltily. In her own room she plucked at the shadowy veil with fingers that tore the filmy mesh and found only the points of the pins. She was crying now—a choking little cry with broken words running through it; and she was still crying all the while her hands were fumbling at the fastenings of her somber black dress.

Long minutes later, the Lady—in Black no longer—trailed slowly down the stairway. Her eyes showed traces of tears, and her chin quivered, but her lips were bravely curved in a smile. She wore a white dress and a single white rose in her hair; while behind her, in the little room over the porch, a tiny clock of filigree gilt ticked loudly on its shelf at the foot of the bed.

There came a sound of running feet in the hall below; then:

"Muvver!—it's muvver come back!" cried a rapturous voice.

And with a little sobbing cry Bobby's mother opened her arms to her son.



The Saving of Dad

On the boundary fence sat James, known as "Jim"; on the stunted grass of the neighboring back yard lay Robert, known as "Bob." In age, size, and frank-faced open-heartedness the boys seemed alike; but there were a presence of care and an absence of holes in Jim's shirt and knee-breeches that were quite wanting in those of the boy on the ground. Jim was the son of James Barlow, lately come into the possession of the corner grocery. Bob was the son of "Handy Mike," who worked out by the day, doing "odd jobs" for the neighboring housewives.

"I hain't no doubt of it," Bob was saying, with mock solemnity. "Yer dad can eat more an' run faster an' jump higher an' shoot straighter than any man what walks round."

"Shucks!" retorted the boy on the fence, with a quick, frown. "That ain't what I said, and you know it."

"So?" teased Bob. "Well, now, 'twas all I could remember. There's lots more, 'course, only I furgit 'em, an'—"

"Shut up!" snapped Jim tersely.

"'Course ev'ry one knows he's only a sample," went on Bob imperturbably. "An' so he's handsomer an'—"

"Will you quit?" demanded Jim sharply.

"No, I won't," retorted Bob, with a quick change of manner. "You 've been here just two weeks, an' it hain't been nothin' but 'Dad says this,' an' 'Dad says that,' ever since. Jiminy! a feller'd think you'd made out ter have the only dad that's goin'!"

There was a pause—so long a pause that the boy on the grass sent a sideways glance at the motionless figure on the fence.

"It wa'n't right, of course," began Jim, at last, awkwardly, "crowin' over dad as I do. I never thought how—how 't would make the rest of you fellers feel." Bob, on the grass, bridled and opened his lips, but something in Jim's rapt face kept him from giving voice to his scorn. "'Course there ain't any one like dad—there can't be," continued Jim hurriedly. "He treats me white, an' he's straight there every time. Dad don't dodge. Maybe I should n't say so much about him, only—well, me an' dad are all alone. There ain't any one else; they're dead."

The boy on the grass turned over and kicked both heels in the air; then he dug at the turf with his forefinger. He wished he would not think of his mother and beloved little sister May just then. He opened his eyes very wide and winked hard, once, twice, and again. He tried to speak; failing in that, he puckered his lips for a whistle. But the lips twitched and would not stay steady, and the whistle, when it came, sounded like nothing so much as the far-away fog-whistle off the shore at night. With a snort of shamed terror lest that lump in his throat break loose, Bob sprang upright and began to turn a handspring with variations.

"Bet ye can't do this," he challenged thickly.

"Bet ye I can," retorted Jim, landing with a thump at Bob's side.

It was after supper the next night that the two boys again occupied the fence and the grass-plot. They had fallen into the way of discussing at this time the day's fires, dog-fights, and parades. To-day, however, fires had been few, dog-fights fewer, and parades so very scarce that they numbered none at all. Conversation had come to a dead pause, when Jim, his eyes on the rod of sidewalk visible from where he sat, called softly:

"Hi, Bob, who's the guy with the plug?"

Bob raised his head. He caught a glimpse of checkered trousers, tail-coat, and tall hat, then he dropped to the ground with a short laugh.

"Yes, who is it?" he scoffed. "Don't ye know?"

"Would I be askin' if I did?" demanded Jim.

"Humph!" grunted the other. "Well, you'll know him fast enough one of these days, sonny, never fear. There don't no one hang out here more'n a month 'fore he spots 'em."

"'Spots 'em'!"

"Sure! He's Danny O'Flannigan."

"Well?"

Into Bob's face came a look of pitying derision.

"'Well,'" he mocked. "Mebbe 't will be 'well,' an' then again mebbe 't won't. It all depends on yer dad."

"On dad!"

"Sure! He's Danny O'Flannigan, the boss o' this ward."

"But what has that got to do with my dad?"

"Aw, come off—as if ye did n't know! It all depends whether he's nailed him or not."

"'Nailed him'!"

"Sure. If he nails him fur a friend, he gits customers an' picnics an' boo-kays all the time. If he don't—" Bob made a wry face and an expressive gesture.

The frown that had been gathering on Jim's brow fled.

"Ho!" he laughed. "Don't you worry. Dad always nails folks—never misses hittin' 'em on the head, either," he added, in reckless triumph, confident that there was nothing "dad" could not do.

The boy on the grass sat up and stared; then he lay back and gave a hoarse laugh—a long, chuckling laugh that brought the frown back to Jim's face.

"Well, what you laughin' at?" demanded Jim sharply.

"Oh, gee, gee!—that's too good!" gurgled the boy on the grass, rolling from side to side. "The saint, the sample, the pattern, the feller what treats 'em square, a-sellin' his vote! Oh, gee, gee!"

The ground suddenly shook with the impact of two sturdy little feet, and Bob found his throat in the grasp of two strong little hands.

"Bob Sullivan, quit yer laughin' an' tell me what you're talkin' about," stormed a shrill treble. "Who's a-sellin' their vote?"

Bob squirmed and struggled.

"A feller—can't talk—without—breathin'!" he choked.

"Well, then,—breathe!" commanded Jim, jerking his companion to a sitting posture and loosening his clasp on his throat. "Now—who's a-sellin' their vote?"

"Ye said it yerself, I didn't," snarled Bob sullenly.

"Said what?"

"That yer dad would nail Danny O'Flannigan, sure."

"And is that sellin' his vote?"

"What else is it, then?" demanded Bob wrathfully. "He votes as Danny says, an' Danny sends him trade, an'—oh, oh, q-quit it—q-quit it—I say!" choked Bob, breath and speech almost cut off by the furious clutch of Jim's lean little fingers.

"I won't quit it; I won't!" stormed Jim, shaking his victim with a force that was as strong as it was sudden. "You know I never meant it that way; an' dad won't sell his vote; he won't—he won't—he won't!"

The next instant a wrathful, palpitating Bob lay alone on the grass, while a no less wrathful and palpitating Jim vaulted the fence at a bound and disappeared into the next house.

Jim awoke the next morning with a haunting sense that something had happened. In a moment he remembered; and with memory came rage and a defiant up tilting of the chin.

As if dad—dad could do this thing! Very possibly—even probably—Handy Mike had long ago gone down before this creature in the checkered trousers and tall hat; but dad—dad was not Handy Mike!

The ins and outs, the fine points, the ethics of it all were not quite clear to Jim; but the derision in Bob's laugh was unmistakable; and on that derision and on that laugh hung his unfaltering confidence that dad would not, could not, do anything to merit either.

For three nights the boys shunned the fence and the back yard. On the fourth night, as if by common impulse, each took his accustomed place, wearing an elaborate air of absolute forgetfulness of the past. There had been two fires and a parade that day, so any embarrassment that the situation held was easily talked down. Not until Handy Mike on the side porch of his dilapidated cottage had greeted a visitor did there come a silence between the two boys. Even then it did not last long, for Bob broke it with a hoarse whisper.

"It's Danny O'Flannigan, sure's a gun! It's gittin' mos' 'lection-time, an' he's drummin' 'em up. Now, jest watch pap. He hain't no use fur Danny. Oh, of course," he added, in hurried conciliation, "'t ain't as if it made any difference ter pap. Pap works fur the women-folks, an' women don't cut much ice in pol'tics."

And Jim did watch—with his eyes wide open and his hands so tightly clenched they fairly ached. He could not hear the words, but he could the voices, and he noted that for the first five minutes one was jovial, the other sullen; and for the next five minutes one was persuasive, the other contradictory; and for the third five minutes one was angry and the other back to its old sullenness. Then he saw that Danny O'Flannigan jerked himself to his feet and strode away, leaving Handy Mike stolidly smoking on the side porch.

"Humph!" muttered Bob. "Danny hung to longer 'n I thought he would. Must be somethin' special's up."

It was on the next night that Jim, from his perch on the back fence, saw the checkered trousers and tall hat on his own doorstep. Bob, on the grass below, could not see, so Jim held his breath while the door opened and his father admitted Danny O'Flannigan to the house.

Jim's heart swelled, and his eyes flashed with pride. Now, we should see how a man dealt with this thing. Surely now there would be no fifteen minutes' dallying. Danny O'Flannigan would soon find out what sort of a person he had to deal with. He would see that dad was not Handy Mike.

It was on Jim's lips to speak to Bob, that Bob might share with him the sight of Danny O'Flannigan's discomfiture. He longed to display this overwhelming proof of the falseness of Bob's assertion that dad would sell his vote; but—best let by-gones be by-gones; he had punished Bob for that, and, after all, Handy Mike was Bob's father. He could tell Bob of it later—how dad had sent Danny O'Flannigan to the right-about at once. Yes, that was the better way.

So Jim schooled himself to hide his exultation, and he listened with well-feigned interest to Bob's animated account of the morning's fire.

Two, three, five minutes passed, and Danny O'Flannigan had not come out. Jim hitched about on his narrow perch, and sent furtive glances across the expanse of yard to his own door. Six, seven, ten minutes passed; Jim's throat grew dry, and his fingers cold at their tips. His eyes had long ago ceased to look at Bob; they were fixed in growing horror on that closed door, behind which were dad—and that man. Eleven, thirteen, fifteen minutes passed.

"I—I'm goin' in now," faltered Jim. "I—I reckon I don't feel well," he finished thickly, as he slipped to the ground and walked unsteadily across the yard.

In the woodshed he stopped short at the kitchen door. A murmur of voices came from far inside, and Jim's knees shook beneath him—it was not so—it could not be possible that dad was still talking! Jim stole through the back hallway and out on to the grass beneath the sitting-room windows on the other side of the house. The voices were louder now—the visitor's very loud.

Jim raised his head and tried to smile.

Of course!—dad was sending him about his business, and the man was angry—that was it. It had taken longer than he thought, but dad—dad never did like to hurt folks' feelings. Some men—some men did not care how they talked; but not dad. Why, dad—dad did not even like to kill a mouse; he—

There came the sound of a laugh—a long, ringing laugh with a gleeful chuckle at the end. Jim grew faint. That was—dad!

Ten seconds later the two men in the sitting-room were confronted by a white-faced, shaking boy.

"Maybe you did n't know, Mr. O'Flannigan," began Jim eagerly, "maybe you did n't know that dad don't speak sharp. He ain't much for hurtin' folks' feelings; but he means it just the same—that he won't do what you want him to do. He's square and straight—dad is, an' he don't dodge; but maybe you thought 'cause he laughed that he was easy—but he ain't. Why, dad would n't—"

"Tut, tut, not so fast, my boy," cut in Danny O'Flannigan pompously. "Your father has already—"

A strong hand gripped O'Flannigan's shoulder, and an agonized pair of eyes arrested his words.

"For God's sake, man," muttered Barlow, "have you no mercy? Think—have you no son of your own that believes you 're almost—God Himself?"

For a brief instant Danny O'Flannigan's eyebrows and shoulders rose in an expressive gesture, and his hands made a disdainful sweep; then his eyes softened strangely.

"As you please," he said, and reached for his hat with an air that was meant to show indifference. "Then the deal is off, I suppose."

"There!" crowed Jim, as the door clicked behind the checkered trousers. "There, I knew you'd do it, dad. Just as if— Why, dad, you 're—cryin'! Pooh! who cares for Danny O'Flannigan?" he soothed, patting the broad shoulders bowed low over the table. "I would n't cry for him!"



Millionaire Mike's Thanksgiving

He was not Mike at first; he was only the Millionaire—a young millionaire who sat in a wheel chair on the pier waiting for the boat. He had turned his coat-collar up to shut out the wind, and his hatbrim down to shut out the sun. For the time being he was alone. He had sent his attendant back for a forgotten book.

It was Thanksgiving, but the Millionaire was not thankful. He was not thinking of what he had, but of what he wanted. He wanted his old strength of limb, and his old freedom from pain. True, the doctors had said that he might have them again in time, but he wanted them now. He wanted the Girl, also. He would have her, to be sure, that very evening; but he wanted her now.

The girl had been very sweet and gentle about it, but she had been firm. As he could recollect it, their conversation had run something like this:

"But I want you myself, all day."

"But, Billy, don't you see? I promised; besides, I ought to do it. I am the president of the club. If I shirk responsibility, what can I expect the others to do?"

"But I need you just as much—yes, more—than those poor families."

"Oh, Billy, how can you say that, when they are so very poor, and when every one of them is the proud kind that would simply rather starve than go after their turkey and things! That's why we girls take them to them. Don't you see?"

"Oh, yes, I see. I see I don't count. It could n't be expected that I'd count—now!" And he patted the crutches at his side.

It was despicable in him, and he knew it. But he said it. He could see her eyes now, all hurt and sorrowful as she went away. . . . And so this morning he sat waiting for the boat, a long, lonely day in prospect in his bungalow on the island, while behind him he had left the dearest girl in the world, who, with other petted darlings of wealth and luxury, was to distribute Thanksgiving baskets to the poor.

Not that his day needed to be lonely. He knew that. A dozen friends stood ready and anxious to supply him with a good dinner and plenty of companionship. But he would have none of them. As if he wanted a Thanksgiving dinner!

And thus alone he waited in the wheel chair; and how he abhorred it—that chair—which was not strange, perhaps, considering the automobile that he loved. Since the accident, however, his injured back had forbidden the speed and jar of motor cars, allowing only the slow but exasperating safety of crutches and a wheel chair. To-day even that seemed denied him, for the man who wheeled his chair did not come.

With a frown the Millionaire twisted himself about and looked behind him. It was near the time for the boat to start, and there would not be another for three hours. From the street hurried a jostling throng of men, women, and children. Longingly the Millionaire watched them. He had no mind to spend the next three hours where he was. If he could be pushed on to the boat, he would trust to luck for the other side. With his still weak left arm he could not propel himself, but if he could find some one—

Twice, with one of the newspapers that lay in his lap, he made a feeble attempt to attract attention; but the Millionaire was used to commanding, not begging, and his action passed unnoticed. He saw then in the crowd the face of a friend, and with a despairing gesture he waved the paper again. But the friend passed by unheeding. What happened then was so entirely unexpected that the Millionaire fell back in his chair dumb with amazement.

"Here, Mike, ye ain't on ter yer job. Youse can't sell nuttin' dat way," scoffed a friendly voice. "Here, now, watch!" And before the Millionaire could collect his wits he saw the four papers he had bought that morning to help beguile a dreary day, snatched into the grimy hands of a small boy and promptly made off with.

The man's angry word of remonstrance died on his lips. The boy was darting in and out of the crowd, shouting "Poiper, here's yer poiper!" at the top of his voice. Nor did he return until the last pair of feet had crossed the gangplank. Then in triumph he hurried back to the waiting man in the wheel chair and dropped into his lap a tiny heap of coppers.

"Sold out, pardner! Dat's what we be," he crowed delighted. "Sold out!"

"But—I—you—" gasped the man.

"Aw, furgit it—'t wa'n't nuttin'," disdained the boy airily. "Ye see, youse got ter holler."

"To—to 'holler'!"

"Sure, Mike, or ye can't sell nuttin'. I been a-watchin' ye, an' I see right off ye wa'n't on ter yer job. Why, pardner, ye can't sell poipers like ye was shellin' out free sody-checks at a picnic. Youse got ter yell at 'em, an' git dere 'tention. 'Course, ye can't run like I can"—his voice softened awkwardly as his eyes fell to the crutches at the man's side—"but ye can holler, an' not jest set dere a-shakin' 'em easy at 'em, like ye did a minute ago. Dat ain't no way ter sell poipers!"

With a half-smothered exclamation the Millionaire fell back in his chair. He knew now that he was not a millionaire, but a "Mike" to the boy. He was not William Seymore Haynes, but a cripple selling papers for a living. He would not have believed that a turned-up collar, a turned down soft hat, and a few jerks of a newspaper could have made such a metamorphosis.

"Youse'll catch on in no time now, pardner," resumed the boy soothingly, "an' I'm mighty glad I was here ter set ye goin'. Sure, I sells poipers meself, I does, an' I knows how 't is. Don't look so flabbergasted. 'T ain't nuttin'. Shucks! hain't fellers what's pardners oughter do a turn fur 't odder?"

The Millionaire bit his lip. He had intended to offer money to this boy, but with his gaze on that glowing countenance, he knew that he could not. He had come suddenly face to face with something for which his gold could not pay.

"Th-thank you," he stammered embarrassedly. "You—you were very kind." He paused, and gazed nervously back toward the street. "I—I was expecting some one. We were going to take that boat."

"No! Was ye? An' he did n't show up? Say, now, dat's tough—an' T'anksgivin', too!"

"As if I cared for Thanksgiving!" The words came tense with bitterness.

"Aw, come now, furgit it!" There was a look of real concern on the boy's face. "Dat ain't no way ter talk. It's T'anksgivin'!"

"Yes, I know—for some." The man's lips snapped shut grimly.

"Aw, come off! Never mind if yer pal did n't show up. Dere 's odders; dere 's me now. Tell ye what, youse come home wid me. Dere won't be no boat now fur a heap o' time, an' I 'm goin' ter T'anksgive. Come on! 'T ain't fur. I'll wheel ye."

The man stared frankly.

"Er—thank you," he murmured, with an odd little laugh; "but—"

"Shucks! 'Course ye can. What be ye goin' ter do?—set here? What's the use o' mopin' like dis when youse got a invite out ter T'anksgivin'? An' ye better catch it while it's goin', too. Ye see, some days I could n't ask ye—not grub enough; but I can ter-day. We got a s'prise comin'."

"Indeed!" The tone was abstracted, almost irritable; but the boy ignored this.

"Sure! It's a dinner—a T'anksgivin' dinner bringed in to us. Now ain't ye comin'?"

"A dinner, did you say?—brought to you?"

"Yeaup!"

"Who brings it?"

"A lady what comes ter see me an' Kitty sometimes; an' she's a peacherino, she is! She said she 'd bring it."

"Do you know—her name?" The words came a little breathlessly.

"You bet! Why, she's our friend, I tell ye! Her name is Miss Daisy Carrolton; dat 's what 't is."

The man relaxed in his chair. It was the dearest girl in the world.

"Say, ain't ye comin'?" urged the boy, anxiously.

"Coming? Of course I'm coming," cried the man, with sudden energy. "Just catch hold of that chair back there, lad, and you'll see."

"Say, now, dat's sumpin' like," crowed the boy, as he briskly started the chair. "'T ain't fur, ye know."

Neither the boy nor the Millionaire talked much on the way. The boy was busy with his task; the man, with his thoughts. Just why he was doing this thing was not clear even to the man himself. He suspected it was because of the girl. He could fancy her face when she should find that it was to him she was bringing her turkey dinner! He roused himself with a start. The boy was speaking.

"My! but I 'm glad I stopped an' watched ye tryin' ter sell poipers. T'ink o' youse a-settin' dere all dis time a-waitin' fur dat boat—an' T'anksgivin', too! An' don't ye worry none. Ma an' Kitty 'll be right glad to see ye. 'T ain't often we can have comp'ny. It's most allers us what's takin' t'ings give ter us—not givin' ourselves."

"Oh," replied the man uncertainly. "Is—is that so?"

With a distinct shock it had come to the millionaire that he was not merely the disgruntled lover planning a little prank to tease the dearest girl in the world. He was the honored guest of a family who were rejoicing that it was in their power to give a lonely cripple a Thanksgiving dinner. His face grew red at the thought.

"Ugh-uh. An', oh, I say, what is yer name, pardner?" went on the boy. "'Course I called ye 'Mike,' but—"

"Then suppose you still call me 'Mike,'" retorted the man, nervously wondering if he could play the part. He caught a glimpse of the beaming face of his benefactor—and decided that he must play it.

"A' right, den; an' here we be," announced the boy in triumph, stopping before a flight of steps that led to a basement door.

With the aid of his crutches the man descended the steps. Behind him came the boy with the chair. At the foot the boy flung wide the door and escorted his guest through a dark, evil-smelling hallway, into a kitchen beyond.

"Ma! Kitty! look a-here!" he shouted, leaving the chair, and springing into the room. "I 've bringed home comp'ny ter dinner. Dis is Mike. He was sellin' poipers down ter de dock, an' he lost his boat. I told him ter come on here an' eat wid us. I knowed what was comin', ye see!"

"Why, yes, indeed, of course," fluttered a wan-faced little woman, plainly trying not to look surprised. "Sit down, Mr. Mike," she finished, drawing up a chair to the old stove.

"Thank you, but I—I—" The man looked about for a means of escape. In the doorway stood the boy with the wheel chair.

"Here, Mr. Mike, mebbe youse wanted dis. Say, Kitty, ain't dis grand?" he ended admiringly, wheeling the chair to the middle of the room.

From the corner came the tap of crutches, and the man saw then what he had not seen before; a slip of a girl, perhaps twelve years old, with a helpless little foot hanging limp below the skirt-hem.

"Oh, oh!" she breathed, her eyes aflame with excitement. "It is—it is—a wheel one! Oh, sir, how glad and proud you must be—with that!"

The man sat down, though not in the wheel chair. He dropped a little helplessly into the one his hostess had brought forward.

"Perhaps you—you'd like to try it," he managed to stammer.

"Oh, can I? Thank you!" breathed a rapturous voice. And there, for the next five minutes, sat the Millionaire watching a slip of a girl wheeling herself back and forth in his chair—his chair, which he had never before suspected of being "fine" or "wonderful" or "grand"—as the girl declared it to be.

Shrinkingly he looked about him. Nowhere did his eyes fall upon anything that was whole. He had almost struggled to his feet to flee from it all when the boy's voice arrested him.

"Ye see, it's comin' 'bout noon—de grub is; an' it's goin' ter be all cooked so we can begin ter eat right off. Dere, how's dat?" he questioned, standing away to admire the propped-up table he and his mother were setting with a few broken dishes. "Now ain't ye glad youse ain't down dere a-waitin' fur a boat what don't come?"

"Sure I am," declared the man, gazing into the happy face before him, and valiantly determining to be Mike now no matter what happened.

"An' ain't the table pretty!" exulted the little girl. "I found that chiny cup with the gold on it. 'Course it don't hold nothin', 'cause the bottom's fell out; but it looks pretty—an' looks counts when comp'ny's here!"

The boy lifted his head suddenly.

"Look a-here! I'll make it hold sumpin'," he cried, diving his hands into his pockets, and bringing out five coppers and a dime. "Youse jest wait. I 'll get a posy up ter de square. 'Course, we 'd ought ter have a posy, wid comp'ny here."

"Hold on!" The Millionaire's hand was in his pocket now. His fingers were on a gold piece, and his eyes—in fancy—were on a glorious riot of Jacqueminots that filled the little room to overflowing, and brought a wondrous light to three pairs of unbelieving eyes—then Mike remembered. "Here," he said a little huskily, "let me help." But the fingers, when he held them out, carried only the dime that Mike might give, not the gold piece of the Millionaire.

"Aw, g'wan," scoffed the boy, jubilantly. "As if we'd let comp'ny pay! Dis is our show!" And for the second time that day the Millionaire had found something that money could not buy.

And thus it happened that the table, a little later, held a centerpiece of flowers—four near-to-fading pinks in a bottomless, gold-banded china cup.

It was the man who heard the honk of a motor-car in the street outside. Instinctively he braced himself, and none too soon. There was a light knock, then in the doorway stood the dearest girl in the world, a large basket and a box in her hands.

"Oh, how lovely! You have the table all ready," she exclaimed, coming swiftly forward. "And what a fine—Billy!" she gasped, as she dropped the box and the basket on the table.

The boy turned sharply.

"Aw! Why did n't ye tell a feller?" he reproached the man; then to the Girl: "Does ye know him? He said ter call him 'Mike.'"

The man rose now. With an odd directness he looked straight into the Girl's startled eyes.

"Maybe Miss Carrolton don't remember me much, as I am now," he murmured.

The Girl flushed. The man, who knew her so well, did not need to be told that the angry light in her eyes meant that she suspected him of playing this masquerade for a joke, and that she did not like it. Even the dearest girl in the world had a temper—at times.