Chapter IV: Part 4

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.

"But why--are you--here?" she asked in a cold little voice.

The man's eyes did not swerve.

"Jimmy asked me to come."

"He asked you to come!"

"Sure I did," interposed Jimmy, with all the anxiety of a host who sees his guest, for some unknown reason, being made uncomfortable. "I knowed youse would n't mind if we did ask comp'ny ter help eat de dinner, an' he lost his boat, ye see, an' had a mug on him as long as me arm, he was that cut up 'bout it. He was sellin' poipers down t' de dock."

"Selling papers!"

"As it happened, I did not _sell_ them," interposed the man, still with that steady meeting of her eyes. "Jimmy sold them for me. He will tell you that I was n't on to my job, so he helped me out."

"Aw, furgit it," grinned Jimmy sheepishly. "Dat wa'n't nuttin'. I only showed him ye could n't sell no poipers widout hollerin'."

A curious look of admiration and relief came to the face of the Girl. Her eyes softened. "You mean--"

She stopped, and the man nodded his head gravely.

"Yes, miss. I was alone, waiting for Thompson. He must have got delayed. I had four papers in my lap, and after Jimmy had sold them and the boat had gone, he very kindly asked me to dinner, and--I came."

"Whew! Look at dis!" cried an excited voice. Jimmy was investigating the contents of the basket. "Say, Mike, we got turkey! Ye see," he explained, turning to Miss Carrolton, "he kinder hung back fur a while, an' wa'n't fast on comin'. An' I did hope 't would be turkey--fur comp'ny. Folks don't have comp'ny ev'ry day!"

"No, folks don't have company every day," repeated the Girl softly; and into the longing eyes opposite she threw, before she went away, one look such as only the dearest girl in the world can give--a look full of tenderness and love and understanding.

Long hours later, in quite a different place, the Girl saw the man again. He was not Mike now. He was the Millionaire. For a time he talked eagerly of his curious visit, chatting excitedly of all the delightful results that were to come from it; rest and ease for the woman; a wheel chair and the best of surgeons for the little girl; school and college for the boy. Then, after a long minute of silence, he said something else. He said it diffidently, and with a rush of bright color to his face--he was not used to treading quite so near to his heart.

"I never thought," he said, just touching the crutches at his side, "that I 'd ever be thankful for--for these. But I was--almost--to-day. You see, it was they that--that brought me--my dinner," he finished, with a whimsicality that did not hide the shake in his voice.

When Mother Fell Ill

Tom was eighteen, and was spending the long summer days behind the village-store counter--Tom hoped to go to college in the fall.

Carrie was fifteen; the long days found her oftenest down by the brook, reading--Carrie was a bit romantic, and the book was usually poetry.

Robert and Rosamond, the twins--known to all their world as "Rob" and "Rose"--were eight; existence for them meant play, food, and sleep. To be sure, there were books and school; but those were in the remote past or dim future together with winter, mittens, and fires. It was summer, now--summer, and the two filled the hours with rollicking games and gleeful shouts--and incidentally their mother's workbasket with numerous torn pinafores and trousers.

Behind everything, above everything, and beneath everything, with all-powerful hands and an all-wise brain, was mother. There was father, of course; but father could not cook the meals, sweep the rooms, sew on buttons, find lost pencils, bathe bumped foreheads, and do countless other things. So thought Tom, Carrie, and the twins that dreadful morning when father came dolefully downstairs and said that mother was sick.

_Mother sick_! Tom stared blankly at the sugar bowl, Carrie fell limply into the nearest chair, and the twins began to cry softly.

The next thirty-six hours were never forgotten by the Dudleys. The cool nook in the woods was deserted, and Carrie spent a hot, discouraged morning in the kitchen--sole mistress where before she had been an all too seldom helper. At noon Mr. Dudley and Tom came home to partake of underdone potatoes and overdone meat. The twins, repressed and admonished into a state of hysterical nervousness, repaired directly after dinner to the attic. Half an hour later a prolonged wail told that Rob had cut his finger severely with an old knife; and it was during the attendant excitement that Rose managed to fall the entire length of the attic stairs. At night, after a supper of soggy rolls and burnt omelet, Mr. Dudley sent an appealing telegram to "Cousin Helen"; and the next afternoon, at five, she came.

Miss Helen Mortimer was pretty, sweet-tempered, and twenty-five. The entire family fell captive to her first smile. There was a world of comfort and relief in her very presence, and in the way she said cheerily:

"We shall do very well, I am sure. Carrie can attend to her mother, and I will take the helm downstairs."

The doctor said that rest and quiet was what Mrs. Dudley most needed, so Carrie's task would be comparatively light; and with a stout woman to come twice a week for the heavy work downstairs, the household gave promise of being once more on a livable basis.

It was at breakfast the next morning that the first cloud appeared on Miss Mortimer's horizon. It came in the shape of the crisply fried potatoes she was serving. The four children were eating late after their father had left.

"Oh, Cousin Helen," began Tom, in an annoyed manner, "I forgot to tell you; I don't like fried potatoes. I have baked ones."

"Baked ones?"

"Yes; mother always baked them for me."'

"Oh, that's too bad; you can't eat them, then,--they hurt you!"

Tom laughed.

"Hurt me? Not a bit of it! I don't like them, that's all. Never mind; you can do it to-morrow."

When "to-morrow" came Miss Mortimer had not forgotten. The big round dish was heaped with potatoes baked to a turn.

"Thank you, I'll take the fried," said Carrie, as the dish was passed to her.

"The f-fried?" stammered Miss Mortimer.

"Yes; I prefer those."

"But there _are_ no fried. I baked them."

"Well, how funny!" laughed Carrie. "I thought we had it all fixed yesterday. I thought we were to have both fried and baked. Mother always did, you know. You see, we don't like them the same way. Never mind," she added with a beaming smile, quite misunderstanding the look on her cousin's face, "it does n't matter a bit and you must n't feel so bad. It 'll be all right to-morrow, I'm sure."

"Yes, and I want buckwheat cakes, please," piped up Rob.

"All right, you shall have them," agreed Cousin Helen with a smile.

Tom laughed.

"Maybe you don't quite know what you 're getting into, Cousin Helen," he suggested. "If you make buckwheat cakes for Rob--it means graham muffins for Rose."

"And she shall have them; the very next morning, too."

"Oh, no, that will never do. She demands them the same day."

"What!"

"Oh, I thought you didn't understand," chuckled Tom. "When you make one, you have to make both. Mother always did--she had to; 't was the only way she could suit both the twins, and I don't believe you 'll find any other way out of it. As for us--we don't mind; we eat them all!"

"Oh!" said Cousin Helen faintly.

"And another thing," resumed Tom, "we might as well settle the drink question right away--of course you 'll want to know. Father is the only one who drinks cereal coffee. We (Carrie and I) like the real thing, every time; and the twins have cocoa--weak, of course, so there 's not much to it."

"And you must n't sweeten mine while you 're cooking it," interposed Rose decidedly.

"Sure enough--lucky you thought of that," laughed Tom, "or else poor Cousin Helen would have had another mistake to fret over. You see," he explained pleasantly, "Rose insists on putting in _all_ the sugar herself, so hers has to be made unsweetened; but Rob is n't so particular and prefers his made in the regular way--sweetened while cooking, you know."

"Oh, I make two kinds of cocoa, do I?" asked Cousin Helen.

"Yes--er--that is, in two ways."

"Hm-m; and coffee and the cereal drink, making four in all?" continued Cousin Helen, with ominous sweetness.

Tom stirred uneasily and threw a sharp glance into his cousin's face.

"Well--er--it does seem a good many; but--well, mother did, you know, and we might as well have what we want, as something different, I suppose," he finished, with vague uneasiness.

"Oh, certainly, who would mind a small thing like that!" laughed Miss Mortimer, a queer little gleam in her eyes.

This was but the beginning. On the pantry-shelf were four kinds of cereals. Carrie explained that all were served each morning, for the family could n't agree on any particular one. As for eggs; Tom always had to have his dropped on a slice of toast; the twins liked theirs scrambled; but Carrie herself preferred hers boiled in the shell. Apple-pie must always be in the house for Tom, though it so happened, strangely enough, Carrie said, that no one else cared for it at all.

"Mother was always making apple-pie," laughed Carrie apologetically. "You see, they get stale so quickly, and Tom is the only one to eat them, they have to be made pretty often--one at a time, of course."

Bread, rolls, pastry, meat, vegetables--each had its own particular story, backed always by that ever-silencing "mother did," until Miss Mortimer was almost in despair. Sometimes she made a feeble protest, but the children were so good-natured, so entirely unaware that they were asking anything out of the ordinary, and so amazed at any proposed deviation from the established rules, that her protests fell powerless at their feet.

"Mother did"--"mother did"--"mother did," Miss Mortimer would murmur wearily to herself each day, until she came to think of the tired little woman upstairs as "Mother Did" instead of "Aunt Maria." "No wonder 'Mother Did' fell ill," she thought bitterly. "Who wouldn't!"

The weeks passed, as weeks will--even the dreariest of them--and the day came for Cousin Helen to go home, Mrs. Dudley being now quite her old self. Loud were the regrets at her departure, and overwhelming were the thanks and blessings showered in loving profusion; but it was two weeks later, when Tom, Carrie, and the twins each sent her a birthday present, that an idea came to Miss Mortimer. She determined at once to carry it out, even though the process might cause her some heartache.

Thus it came about that Tom, Carrie, Rob, and Rose, each received a letter (together with the gift each had sent) almost by return mail.

Tom's ran:

_My dear Cousin_: Thank you very much for the novel you sent me, but I am going to ask you to change it for a book of travels. I like that kind better, and mother and all my friends give me travels whenever they want to please me. I might as well have something I want as something different, I suppose, so I am asking you to change.

Very lovingly
YOUR COUSIN HELEN

Carrie read this:

_My dear Carrie_: Thank you for the pretty little turnover collar and cuffs you sent me for my birthday; but I think it is so funny you never noticed that I don't care for pink. Mother found it out even when I was but little more than a baby. Oh, I can wear it, but I don't care for it. Don't feel badly, however, my dear Carrie; all you've got to do is just to take these back and make me some blue ones, and I know you won't mind doing that.

Lovingly
COUSIN HELEN

Rob's letter ran:

_My dear Rob_: I am writing to thank you for the box of chocolates you sent yesterday. I am sending them back to you, though, because I seldom eat chocolates. Oh, no, they don't hurt me, but I don't like them as well as I do caramels, so won't you please change them? Mother gives me a box of candy every Christmas, but it is never chocolates. I know you would rather give me what I like, Rob, dear.

Lots of love
COUSIN HELEN

Rose had striven early and late over a crocheted tidy, spending long hours of her playtime in doing work to which her fingers were but little accustomed. She confidently expected a loving letter of thanks and praise, and could scarcely wait to open the envelope. This is what she read:

_My dear Rose_: Thank you very much for the tidy, dear, but whatever in the world caused you to make it in that stitch? I like shell-stitch ever so much better, so would you mind doing it over for me? I am returning this one, for maybe you will decide to ravel it out; if you don't, you can just make me a new one. Mother has crocheted several things for me, but most of them are in shell-stitch, which, after all, is about the only stitch I care for.

Lots of love from
YOUR COUSIN HELEN

After a dazed five minutes of letter-reading, the four children hurried to the attic--always their refuge for a conference. There they read the four letters aloud, one after another. A dumfounded silence followed the last word. Rose was the first to break it.

"I think she's a mean old thing--so there!" Rose was almost crying.

"Hush, dear, hush!" choked Carrie. "She isn't mean; she's good and kind--we know she is. She--she means something by it; she must. Let's read them again!"

Bit by bit they went over the letters. It was at the third mention of "mother" that Tom raised his head with a jerk. He looked sheepishly into Carrie's face.

"I--I guess I know," he said with a shame-faced laugh.

It must have been a month later that Miss Mortimer received a letter from Mrs. Dudley. One paragraph sent a quick wave of color to the reader's face; and this was the paragraph:

I am feeling better than for a long time. Some way, the work does n't seem nearly so hard as it used to. Perhaps it is because I am stronger, or perhaps it is because the children are not nearly so particular about their food as they used to be. I am so glad, for it worried me sometimes--they were so very fussy. I wondered how they would get along out in the world where "mother" could n't fix everything to their liking. Perhaps you noticed it when you were here. At any rate, they are lots better now. Perhaps they have out-grown it. I hope so, I'm sure.

The Glory and the Sacrifice

The Honorable Peter Wentworth was not a church-going man, and when he appeared at the prayer-meeting on that memorable Friday evening there was at once a most irreligious interest manifested by every one present, even to the tired little minister himself. The object of their amazed glances fortunately did not keep the good people long in suspense. After a timid prayer--slightly incoherent, but abounding in petitions for single-mindedness and worshipful reverence--from the minister's wife, the Honorable Peter Wentworth rose to his feet and loudly cleared his throat:

"Ahem! Ladies and gentlemen--er--ah--brethren," he corrected, hastily, faint memories of a godly youth prompting his now unaccustomed lips; "I--er--I understand that you are desirous of building a new church. A very laudable wish--very," with his eyes fixed on a zigzag crack in the wall across the room; "and I understand that your funds are--er--insufficient. I am, in fact, informed that you need two thousand dollars. Ahem! Ladies--er--brethren, I stand here to announce that on the first day of January I will place in your pastor's hands the sum of one thousand dollars, provided"--and he paused and put the tips of his forefingers together impressively--"provided you will raise an equal amount on your own part. The first day of next January, remember. You have nearly a year, you will notice, in which to raise the money. I--er--I hope you will be successful." And he sat down heavily.

The remainder of that meeting was not conspicuous for deep spirituality, and after the benediction the Honorable Peter Wentworth found himself surrounded by an excited crowd of grateful church members. The honorable gentleman was distinctly pleased. He had not given anything away before since--well, he had the same curious choking feeling in his throat now that he remembered to have felt when he gave the contents of his dinner pail to the boy across the aisle at the old red schoolhouse. After all, it was a rather pleasant sensation; he almost wished it had oftener been his.