heepishly. "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. I