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 glori