ist's arms. Mrs.
Bailey shut the door with a troubled face.

"I see it's your dog, sir," she said, "but I hope you won't be thinking
that Jimmy or I--"

"Madam," interrupted Mr. Carter, "I could not be so foolish. On the
contrary, I owe you a thousand thanks."

Mrs. Bailey looked more cheerful. "Poor little Billy!" she said. "It'll
come hard on him, losing Pete just at Christmas time. But the boys are
so good to him, I dare say he'll forget it."

"Who are these boys?" inquired the philanthropist. "Isn't their
action--somewhat unusual?"

"It's Miss Gray's club at the settlement, sir," explained Mrs. Bailey.
"Every Christmas they do this for somebody. It's not charity; Billy and
I don't need charity, or take it. It's just friendliness. They're good
boys."

"I see," said the philanthropist. He was still wondering about it,
though, when the door opened again, and Jimmy thrust out a face shining
with anticipation.

"All ready, mister!" he said. "Bill's waitin' for you!"

"Jimmy," began Mrs. Bailey, about to explain, "the gentleman--"

But the philanthropist held up his hand, interrupting her. "You'll let
me see your son, Mrs. Bailey?" he asked, gently.

"Why, certainly, sir."

Mr. Carter put Skiddles down and walked slowly into the inner room.
The bed stood with its side toward him. On it lay a small boy of seven,
rigid of body, but with his arms free and his face lighted with joy.
"Hello, Santa Claus!" he piped, in a voice shrill with excitement.

"Hello, Bill!" answered the philanthropist, sedately.

The boy turned his eyes on Jimmy.

"He knows my name," he said, with glee.

"He knows everybody's name," said Jimmy. "Now you tell him what you
want, Bill, and he'll bring it to-morrow.

"How would you like," said the philanthropist, reflectively, "an--an--"
he hesitated, it seemed so incongruous with that stiff figure on the
bed--"an airgun?"

"I guess yes," said Bill, happily.

"And a train of cars," broke in the impatient Jimmy, "that goes like
sixty when you wind her?"

"Hi!" said Bill.

The philanthropist solemnly made notes of this.

"How about," he remarked, inquiringly, "a tree?"

"Honest?" said Bill.

"I think it can be managed," said Santa Claus. He advanced to the
bedside.

"I'm glad to have seen you, Bill. You know how busy I am, but I hope--I
hope to see you again."

"Not till next year, of course," warned Jimmy.

"Not till then, of course," assented Santa Claus. "And now, good-