man in a fur overcoat
had walked in mournful irritation alone.

He stood upon a corner uncertainly. One way led to the park, and this he
usually took; but to-day he did not want to go to the park--it was too
reminiscent of Skiddles. He looked the other way. Down there, if one
went far enough, lay "slums," and Mr. Carter hated the sight of slums;
they always made him miserable and discontented. With all his money and
his philanthropy, was there still necessity for such misery in the
world? Worse still came the intrusive question at times: Had all his
money anything to do with the creation of this misery? He owned no
tenements; he paid good wages in every factory; he had given sums such
as few men have given in the history of philanthropy. Still--there were
the slums. However, the worst slums lay some distance off, and he
finally turned his back on the park and walked on.

It was the day before Christmas. You saw it in people's faces; you saw
it in the holly wreaths that hung in windows; you saw it, even as you
passed the splendid, forbidding houses on the avenue, in the green that
here and there banked massive doors; but most of all, you saw it in the
shops. Up here the shops were smallish, and chiefly of the provision
variety, so there was no bewildering display of gifts; but there were
Christmas-trees everywhere, of all sizes. It was astonishing how many
people in that neighbourhood seemed to favour the old-fashioned idea of
a tree.

Mr. Carter looked at them with his irritation softening. If they made
him feel a trifle more lonely, they allowed him to feel also a trifle
less responsible--for, after all, it was a fairly happy world.

At this moment he perceived a curious phenomenon a short distance before
him--another Christmas-tree, but one which moved, apparently of its own
volition, along the sidewalk. As Mr. Carter overtook it, he saw that it
was borne, or dragged, rather by a small boy who wore a bright red
flannel cap and mittens of the same peculiar material. As Mr. Carter
looked down at him, he looked up at Mr. Carter, and spoke cheerfully:

"Goin' my way, mister?"

"Why," said the philanthropist, somewhat taken back, "I _was_!"

"Mind draggin' this a little way?" asked the boy, confidently, "my hands
is cold."

"Won't you enjoy it more if you manage to take it home by yourself?"

"Oh, it ain't for me!" said the boy.

"Your employer," said the philanthropist, severely, "is certainly
careless if he