Chapter II: Part 2

The gory tale, in true serial style, was “continued” the next and succeeding mornings, to the enthralment of the listener and the amusement of the reader, the latter finding in her occupation as well a convenient reason for avoiding or putting a limit to the doctor’s undisguised endeavours to share, if not, indeed, to monopolise, her attention. Even serials, however, have an end, and on the morning of the sixth reading the impossibly shrewd detective successfully put out of existence, or safely incarcerated each one of the numerous scoundrels who had hitherto triumphed over the law, and Constance closed the book.

“Hully gee!” sighed Swot, contentedly. “Say, dat Old Sleut, he’s up to de limit, oin’t he? It don’t matter wot dey does, he works it so’s de hull push comes his way, don’t he?”

“He certainly was very far-seeing,” Constance conceded; “but what a pity it is that he—that he wasn’t in some finer calling.”

“Finer wot?”

“How much nobler it would have been if, instead of taking life, he had been saving it—like Dr. Armstrong, for instance,” she added, to bring her idea within the comprehension of the boy.

“Ah, dat’s de talk for religious mugs an’ goils,” contemptuously exclaimed the waif, “but it guv’s me de sore ear. It don’t go wid me, not one little bit.”

“Aren’t you grateful to Dr. Armstrong for all he’s done for you?”

“Bet youse life,” assented Swot; “but Ise oin’t goin’ to be no doctor, nah! Ise goin’ to git on de force, dat’s de racket Ise outer. Say, will youse read me anudder of dem stories?”

“Gladly, if I can find the right kind this time.”

The boy raised his head to look about the ward. “Hey, doc,” called his cracked treble.

“Hush, don’t!” protested the girl.

“W’y not?”

Before she could frame a reason, the doctor was at the bedside. “What is it?” he asked.

“Say, wese got tru wid dis story, an’ Miss Constance says she’ll read me anudder, but dey’ll set de goime up on her, sure, she bein’ a goil; so will youse buy de real t’ing?”

“That I will.”

“Dat’s hunky.” Then he appealed to Constance. “Say, will youse pay for it?” he requested.

“And why should she?” inquired Dr. Armstrong.

“’Cause she’s got de dough, an Ise heard de nurse loidies talkin’ ’bout youse, an’ dey said dat youse wuz poor.”

It was the doctor’s turn to colour, and flush he did.

“Swot and I will both be very grateful, Dr. Armstrong, if you will get us another of the Old Sleuth books,” spoke up Miss Durant, hastily.

“Won’t youse guv ’im de price?” reiterated the urchin.

“Then we’ll expect it to-morrow morning,” went on the girl; and for the first time in days she held out her hand to Dr. Armstrong, “And thank you in advance for your kindness. Good-morning.”

“Rats!” she heard, as she walked away. “I didn’t tink she’d do de grand sneak like dat, doc, jus’ ’cause I tried to touch her for de cash.”

Constance slowed one step, then resumed her former pace. “He surely— Of course he’ll understand why I hurried away,” she murmured.

Blind as he might be, Dr. Armstrong was not blind to the geniality of Miss Durant’s greeting the next morning, or the warmth of her thanks for the cheap-looking dime novel. She chatted pleasantly with him some moments before beginning on the new tale; and even when she at last opened the book, there was a subtle difference in the way she did it that made it include instead of exclude him from a share in the reading. And this was equally true of the succeeding days.

The new doings of Old Sleuth did not achieve the success that the previous ones had. The invalid suddenly developed both restlessness and inattention, with such a tendency to frequent interruptions as to make reading well-nigh impossible.

“Really, Swot,” Constance was driven to threaten one morning, when he had broken in on the narrative for the seventh time with questions which proved that he was giving no heed to the book, “unless you lie quieter, and don’t interrupt so often, I shall not go on reading.”

“Dat goes,” acceded the little fellow; yet before she had so much as finished a page he asked, “Say, did youse ever play craps?”

“No,” she answered, with a touch of severity.

“It’s a jim dandy goime, Ise tells youse. Like me to learn youse?”

“No,” replied the girl, as she closed the book.

“Goils never oin’t no good,” remarked Swot, discontentedly.

Really irritated, Miss Durant rose and adjusted her boa. “Swot,” she said, “you are the most ungrateful boy I ever knew, and I’m not merely not going to read any more to-day, but I have a good mind not to come to-morrow, just to punish you.”

“Ah, chase youseself!” was the response. “Youse can’t pass dat gold brick on me, well, I guess!”

“What are you talking about?” indignantly asked Constance.

“Tink Ise oin’t onter youse curves? Tink Ise don’t hear wot de nurse loidies says? Gee! Ise know w’y youse so fond of comin’ here.”

“Why do I come here?” asked Constance, in a voice full of warning.

The tone was wasted on the boy.

“’Cause youse dead gone on de doc.”

“I am sorry you don’t know better than to talk like that, Swot,” said the girl, quietly, “because I wanted to be good to you, and now you have put an end to my being able to be. You will have to get some one else to read to you after this. Good-bye.” She passed her hand kindly over his forehead, and turned to find that Dr. Armstrong was standing close behind her, and must have overheard more or less of what had been said. Without a word, and looking straight before her, Constance walked away.

Once out of the hospital, her conscience was not altogether easy; and though she kept away the next day, she sent her footman with the usual gift of fruits and other edibles; and this she did again on the morning following.

“Of course he didn’t mean to be so atrociously impertinent,” she sighed, in truth missing what had come to be such an amusing and novel way of using up some of each twenty-four hours. “But I can’t, in self-respect, go to him any more.”

These explanations were confided to her double in the mirror, as she eyed the effect of a new gown, donned for a dinner; and while she still studied the eminently satisfactory total, she was interrupted by a knock at the door, and her maid brought her a card the footman handed in.

Constance took it, looked astonished, then frowned slightly, and finally glanced again in the mirror. Without a word, she took her gloves and fan from the maid, and descended to the drawing-room.

“Good-evening, Dr. Armstrong,” she said, coolly.

“I have come here—I have intruded on you, Miss Durant,” awkwardly and hurriedly began the doctor, “because nothing else would satisfy Swot McGarrigle. I trust you will understand that I—He—he is to undergo an operation, and—well, I told him it was impossible, but he still begged me so to ask you, that I hadn’t the heart to refuse him.”

“An operation!” cried Constance.

“Don’t be alarmed. It’s really nothing serious. He—Perhaps you may have noticed how restless and miserable he has been lately. It is due, we have decided, to one of the nerves of the leg having been lacerated, and so I am going to remove it, to end the suffering, which is now pretty keen.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” exclaimed the girl, regretfully. “I didn’t dream of it, and so was hard on him, and said I wouldn’t come any more.”

“He has missed your visits very much, Miss Durant, and we found it very hard to comfort him each morning, when only your servant came.”

“Has he really? I thought they were nothing to him.”

“If you knew that class better, you would appreciate that they are really grateful and warm-hearted, but they fear to show their feelings, and, besides, could not express them, even if they had the words, which they don’t. But if you could hear the little chap sing your praises to the nurses and to me, you would not think him heartless. ‘My loidy’ is his favourite description of you.”

“He wants to see me?” questioned the girl, eagerly.

“Yes. Like most of the poorer class, Miss Durant,” explained the doctor, “he has a great dread of the knife. To make him less frantic, I promised that I would come to you with his wish; and though I would not for a moment have you present at the actual operation, if you could yield so far as to come to him for a few minutes, and assure him that we are going to do it for his own good, I think it will make him more submissive.”

“When do you want me?” asked Miss Durant.

“It is—I am to operate as soon as I can get back to the hospital, Miss Durant. It has been regrettably postponed as it is.”

The girl stood hesitating for a moment. “But what am I to do about my dinner?”

Dr. Armstrong’s eyes travelled over her from head to foot, taking in the charming gown of satin and lace, the strings of pearls about her exquisite throat and wrists, and all the other details which made up such a beautiful picture. “I forgot,” he said, quietly, “that society duties now take precedence over all others.” Then, with an instant change of manner, he went on: “You do yourself an injustice, I think, Miss Durant, in even questioning what you are going to do. You know you are coming to the boy.”

For the briefest instant the girl returned his intent look, trying to fathom what enabled him to speak with such absolute surety; then she said, “Let us lose no time,” as she turned back into the hall and hurried out of the front door, not even attending to the doctor’s protest about her going without a wrap; and she only said to him at the carriage door, “You will drive with me, of course, Dr. Armstrong?” Then to the footman, “Tell Murdock, the hospital, Maxwell, but you are to go at once to Mrs. Purdy, and say I shall be prevented from coming to her to-night by a call that was not to be disregarded,”

“It was madness of you, Miss Durant, to come out without a cloak, and I insist on your wearing this,” said the doctor, the moment the carriage had started, as he removed his own overcoat.

“Oh, I forgot—but I mustn’t take it from you, Dr. Armstrong.”

“Have no thought of me. I am twice as warmly clad as you, and am better protected than usual.”

Despite her protest he placed it about Constance’s shoulders and buttoned it up. “You know,” he said, “the society girl with her bare throat and arms is at once the marvel and the despair of us doctors, for every dinner or ball ought to have its death-list from pneumonia; but it never—”

“Will it be a very painful operation?” asked the girl.

“Not at all; and the anaesthetic prevents consciousness. If Swot were a little older, I should not have had to trouble you. It is a curious fact that boys, as a rule, face operations more bravely than any other class of patient we have.”

“I wonder why that is?” queried Constance.

“It is due to the same ambition which makes cigarette-smokers of them—a desire to be thought manly.”

Once the carriage reached the hospital, Constance followed the doctor up the stairs and through the corridor. “Let me relieve you of the coat, Miss Durant,” he advised, and took it from her and passed it over to one of the orderlies. Then, opening a door, he made way for her to enter.

Constance passed into a medium-sized room, which a first glance showed her to be completely lined with marble; but there her investigations ceased, for her eyes rested on the glass table upon which lay the little fellow, while beside him stood a young doctor and a nurse. At the sound of her footsteps the boy turned his head till he caught sight of her, when, after an instant’s stare, he surprised the girl by hiding his eyes and beginning to cry.

“Ise knowed all along youse wuz goin’ to kill me,” he sobbed.

“Why, Swot,” cried Constance, going to his side. “Nobody is going to kill you.”

The hands were removed from the eyes, and still full of tears, they blinkingly stared a moment at the girl.

“Hully gee! Is dat youse?” he ejaculated. “Ise tought youse wuz de angel come for me.”

“You may go many years in society, Miss Durant, without winning another compliment so genuine,” remarked Dr. Armstrong, smiling. “Nor is it surprising that he was misled,” he added.

Constance smiled in return as she answered, “And it only proves how the value of a compliment is not in its truthfulness, but in its being truth to the one who speaks it.”

“Say, youse won’t let dem do nuttin’ bad to me, will youse?” implored the boy.

“They are only going to help you, Swot,” the girl assured him, as she took his hand.

“Den w’y do dey want to put me to sleep for?”

“To spare you suffering,”

“Dis oin’t no knock-out drops, or dat sorter goime? Honest?”

“No. I won’t let them do you any harm.”

“Will youse watch dem all de time dey’s doin’ tings to me?”

“Yes. And if you’ll be quiet and take it nicely, I’ll bring you a present to-morrow.”

“Dat’s grand! Wot’ll youse guv me? Say, don’t do dat,” he protested, as the nurse applied the sponge and cone to his face.

“Lie still, Swot,” said Constance, soothingly, “and tell me what you would best like me to give you. Shall it be a box of building-blocks—or some soldiers—or a fire-engine—or—”

“Nah. Ise don’t want nuttin’ but one ting—an’ dat’s—wot wuz Ise tinkin’—Ise forgits wot it wuz—lemme see—Wot’s de matter? Wheer is youse all?—” The little frame relaxed and lay quiet.

“That is all you can do for us, Miss Durant,” said Dr. Armstrong.

“May I not stay, as I promised him I would?” begged Constance.

“Can you bear the sight of blood?”

“I don’t know—but see—I’ll turn my back.” Suiting the action to the word, the girl faced so that, still holding Swot’s hand, she was looking away from the injured leg.

A succession of low-spoken orders to his assistants was the doctor’s way of telling her that he left her to do as she chose, She stood quietly for a few minutes, but presently her desire to know the progress of the operation, and her anxiety over the outcome, proved too strong for her, and she turned her head to take a furtive glance. She did not look away again, but with a strange mixture of fascination and squeamishness, she watched as the bleeding was stanched with sponges, each artery tied, and each muscle drawn aside, until finally the nerve was reached and removed; and she could not but feel both wonder and admiration as she noted how Dr. Armstrong’s hands, at other times seemingly so much in his way, now did their work so skilfully and rapidly. Not till the operation was over, and the resulting wound was being sprayed with antiseptics, did the girl realize how cold and faint she felt, or how she was trembling. Dropping the hand of the boy, she caught at the operating-table, and then the room turned black.

“It’s really nothing,” she asserted. “I only felt dizzy for an instant. Why! Where am I?”

“You fainted away, Miss Durant, and we brought you here,” explained the nurse, once again applying the salts. The woman rose and went to the door. “She is conscious now, Dr. Armstrong.”

As the doctor entered Constance tried to rise, but a motion of his hand checked her. “Sit still a little yet, Miss Durant,” he ordered peremptorily. From a cupboard he produced a plate of crackers and a glass of milk, and brought them to her.

“I really don’t want anything,” declared the girl.

“You are to eat something at once,” insisted Dr. Armstrong, in a very domineering manner.

He held the glass to her lips, and Constance, after a look at his face, took a swallow of the milk, and then a piece of cracker he broke off.

“How silly of me to behave so,” she said, as she munched.

“The folly was mine in letting you stay in the room when you had had no dinner. That was enough to knock up any one,” answered the doctor. “Here.” Once again the glass was held to her lips, and once again, after a look at his face, Constance drank, and then accepted a second bit of cracker from his fingers.

“Do you keep these especially for faint-minded women?” she asked, trying to make a joke of the incident.

“This is my particular sanctum, Miss Durant; and as I have a reprehensible habit of night-work, I keep them as a kind of sleeping potion.”

Constance glanced about the room with more interest, and as she noticed the simplicity and the bareness, Swot’s remark concerning the doctor’s poverty came back to her. Only many books and innumerable glass bottles, a microscope, and other still more mysterious instruments, seemed to save it from the tenement-house, if not, indeed, the prison, aspect.

“Are you wondering how it is possible for any one to live in such a way?” asked the doctor, as his eyes followed hers about the room.

“If you will have my thought,” answered Constance, “it was that I am in the cave of the modern hermit, who, instead of seeking solitude, because of the sins of mankind, seeks it that he may do them good.”

“We have each had a compliment to-night,” replied Dr. Armstrong, his face lighting up.

The look in his eyes brought something into the girl’s thoughts, and with a slight effort she rose. “I think I am well enough now to relieve you of my intrusion,” she said.

“You will not be allowed to leave the hermit’s cell till you have finished the cracker and the milk,” affirmed the man. “I only regret that I can’t keep up the character by offering you locusts and wild honey.”

“At least don’t think it necessary to stay here with me,” said Miss Durant, as she dutifully began to eat and drink again. “If—oh—the operation—How is Swot?”

“Back in the ward, though not yet conscious.”

“And the operation?”

“Absolutely successful.”

“Despite my interruption?”

“Another marvel to us M.D.’s is the way so sensitive a thing as a woman will hold herself in hand by sheer nerve force when it is necessary. You did not faint till the operation was completed.”

“Now may I go?” asked the girl, with a touch of archness, as she held up the glass and the plate, both empty.

“Yes, if you will let me share your carriage. Having led you into this predicament, the least I feel I can do is to see you safely out of it.”

“Now the hermit is metamorphosing himself into a knight,” laughed Constance, merrily, “with a distressed damsel on his hands. I really need not put you to the trouble, but I shall be glad if you will take me home.”

Once again the doctor put his overcoat about her, and they descended the stairs and entered the brougham.

“Tell me the purpose of all those instruments I saw in your room,” she asked as they started.

“They are principally for the investigation of bacteria. Not being ambitious to spend my life doctoring whooping-cough and indigestion, I am striving to make a scientist of myself.”

“Then that is why you prefer hospital work?”

“No. I happen to have been born with my own living to make in the world, and when I had worked my way through the medical school, I only too gladly became ‘Interne’ here, not because it is what I wish to do, but because I need the salary.”

“Yet it seems such a noble work.”

“Don’t think I depreciate it, but what I am doing is only remedial What I hope to do is to prevent.”

“How is it possible?”

“For four years my every free hour has been given to studying what is now called tuberculosis, and my dream is to demonstrate that it is in fact the parent disease—a breaking down—disintegration—of the bodily substance—the tissue, or cell—and to give to the world a specific.”

“How splendid!” exclaimed Constance. “And you believe you can?”

“Every day makes me more sure that both demonstration and specific are possible —but it is unlikely that I shall be the one to do it.”

“I do not see why?”

“Because there are many others studying the disease who are free from the necessity of supporting themselves, and so can give far more time and money to the investigation than is possible for me. Even the scientist must be rich in these days, Miss Durant, if he is to win the great prizes.”

“Won’t you tell me something about yourself?” requested Constance, impulsively.

“There really is nothing worth while yet. I was left an orphan young, in the care of an uncle who was able to do no better for me than to get me a place in a drug-store. By doing the night-work it was possible to take the course at the medical college; and as I made a good record, this position was offered to me.”

“It—you could make it interesting if you tried.”

“I’m afraid I am not a realist, Miss Durant. I dream of a future that shall be famous by the misery and death I save the world from, but my past is absolutely eventless.”

As he ended, the carriage drew up at the house, and the doctor helped her out.

“You will take Dr. Armstrong back to the hospital, Murdock,” she ordered.

“Thank you, but I really prefer a walk before going to _my_ social intimates, the bacilli,” answered the doctor, as he went up the steps with her. Then, after he had rung the bell, he held out his hand and said: “Miss Durant, I need scarcely say, after what I have just told you, that my social training has been slight—so slight that I was quite unaware that the old adage, ‘Even a cat may look at a king,’ was no longer a fact until I overheard what was said the other day. My last wish is to keep you from coming to the hospital, and in expressing my regret at having been the cause of embarrassment to you, I wish to add a pledge that henceforth, if you will resume your visits, you and Swot shall be free from my intrusion. Good-night,” he ended, as he started down the steps.

“But I never—really I have no right to exclude—nor do I wish—” protested the girl; and then, as the servant opened the front door, even this halting attempt at an explanation ceased. She echoed a “Good-night,” adding, “and thank you for all your kindness,” and very much startled and disturbed the footman, as she passed into the hallway, by audibly remarking, “Idiot!”

She went upstairs slowly, as if thinking, and once in her room, seated herself at her desk and commenced a note. Before she had written a page she tore the paper in two and began anew. Twice she repeated this proceeding; then rose in evident irritation, and, walking to her fire, stood looking down into the flame. “I’ll think out what I had better do when I’m not so tired,” she finally remarked, as she rang for her maid. But once in bed, her thoughts, or the previous strain, kept her long hours awake; and when at last she dropped into unconsciousness her slumber was made miserable by dreams mixing in utter confusion operating-room and dinner, guests and microbes—dreams in which she was alternately striving to explain something to Dr. Armstrong, who could not be brought to understand, or to conceal something he was determined to discover. Finally she found herself stretched on the dinner-table, the doctor, knife in hand, standing over her, with the avowed intention of opening her heart to learn some secret, and it was her helpless protests and struggles which brought consciousness to her—to discover that she had slept far into the morning.

With the one thought of a visit to the hospital during the permitted hours, she made a hasty toilet, followed by an equally speedy breakfast, and was actually on her way downstairs when she recalled her promise of a gift. A glance at her watch told her that there was not time to go to the shops, and hurrying back to her room, she glanced around for something among the knick-knacks scattered about. Finding nothing that she could conceive of as bringing pleasure to the waif, she took from a drawer of her desk a photograph of herself, and descended to the carriage.

She had reason to be thankful for her recollection, as, once her greetings, and questions to the nurse about the patient’s condition were made, Swot demanded,

“Wheer’s dat present dat youse promised me?”

“I did not have time this morning to get something especially for you,” she explained, handing him the portrait, “so for want of anything better, I’ve brought you my picture.”

The urchin took the gift and looked at both sides. “Wotinell’s dat good for?” he demanded contemptuously.

“I thought—hoped it might please you, as showing you that I had forgiven—that I liked you.”

“Ah, git on de floor an’ look at youseself,” disgustedly remarked Swot. “Dat talk don’t cut no ice wid me. W’y didn’t youse ask wot Ise wants?”

“And what would you like?”

“Will youse guv me a pistol?”

“Why, what would you do with it?”

“I’d trow a scare into de big newsies w’en dey starts to chase me off de good beats.”

“Really, Swot, I don’t think I ought to give you anything so dangerous. You are very young to—”

“Ah! Youse a goil, an’ deyse born frightened. Bet youse life, if youse ask de doc, he won’t tink it nuttin’ to be scared of.”

“He isn’t here this morning,” remarked Constance, for some reason looking fixedly at the glove she was removing as she spoke.

The urchin raised his head and peered about. “Dat’s funny!” he exclaimed. “It’s de first time he oin’t bin here w’en youse wuz at de bat.”

“Has he seen you this morning?”

“Why, cert!”

The girl opened the dime novel and found the page at which the interruption had occurred, hesitated an instant, and remarked, “The next time he comes you might say that I would like to see him for a moment—to ask if I had better give you a pistol.” This said, she hastily began on the book. Thrillingly as the pursuits and pursuit of the criminal classes were pictured, however, there came several breaks in the reading; and had any keenly observant person been watching Miss Durant, he would have noticed that these pauses invariably happened whenever some one entered the ward.

It was made evident to her that she and Swot gave value to entirely different parts of her message to the doctor; for, no sooner did she reach the waif’s bedside the next morning than the invalid announced,—

“Say, Ise done my best to jolly de doc, but he stuck to it dat youse oughtn’t to guv me no pistol.”

“Didn’t you tell him what I asked you to say?” demanded Constance, anxiously.

“Soytenly. Ise says to ’im dat youse wanted to know wot he tought, an’ he went back on me. Ise didn’t tink he’d trun me down like dat!”

“I might better have written him,” murmured Miss Durant, thoughtfully. She sat for some time silently pondering, till the waif asked,—

“Say, youse goin’ to guv me dat present just de same, oin’t youse?”

“Yes, I’ll give you a present,” acceded the girl, opening the book. “I think, Swot,” she continued, “that we’ll have to trouble Dr. Armstrong for another Old Sleuth, as we shall probably finish this to-day. And tell him this time it is my turn to pay for it,” From her purse she produced a dime, started to give it to the boy, hastily drew back her hand, and replacing the coin, substituted for it a dollar bill. Then she began reading rapidly—so rapidly that the end of the story was attained some twenty minutes before the visitors’ time had expired.

“Say,” was her greeting on the following day, as Swot held up another lurid-looking tale and the dollar bill, “Ise told de doc youse wuzn’t willin’ dat he, bein’ poor, should bleed de cash dis time, an’ dat youse guv me dis to—”

“You didn’t put it that way, Swot?” demanded Miss Durant.

“Wot way?”

“That I said he was poor.”

“Soytenly.”

“Oh, Swot, how could you?”

“Wot’s de matter?”

“I never said that! Was he—was he—What did he say?”

“Nuttin’ much, ’cept dat I wuz to guv youse back de dough, for de books wuz on ’im.”

“I’m afraid you have pained him, Swot, and you certainly have pained me. Did he seem hurt or offended?”

“Nop.”

“I wish you would tell him I shall be greatly obliged if he will come to the ward to-morrow, for I wish to see him. Now don’t alter this message, please, Swot.”

That her Mercury did her bidding more effectively was proved by her finding the doctor at the bedside when she arrived the next day.

“Swot told me that you wished to see me, Miss Durant,” he said.

“Yes, and I’m very much obliged to you for waiting. I—How soon will it be possible for him to be up?”

“He is doing so famously that we’ll have him out of bed by Monday, I hope.”

“I promised him a present, and I want to have a Christmas tree for him, if he can come to it.”

“Wot’s dat?” came the quick question from the bed.

“If you don’t know, I’m going to let it be a surprise to you, Swot. Do you think he will be well enough to come to my house? Of course I’ll send my carriage.”

“If he continues to improve, he certainly will be.”

“Say, is dat de ting dey has for de mugs wot goes to Sunday-school, an’ dat dey has a party for?”

“Yes, only this tree will be only for you, Swot,”

“Youse oin’t goin’ to have no udder swipes but me?”

“No.”

“Den who’ll git all de presents wot’s on de tree?” inquired Swot, suggestively.

“Guess!” laughed Constance.

“Will dey all be for me?”

“Yes.”

“Hully gee! But dat’s grand! Ise in it up to de limit, doc, oin’t Ise?” exclaimed the waif, turning to the doctor.

Dr. Armstrong smiled and nodded his head, but something in his face or manner seemed to give a change to the boy’s thoughts, for, after eyeing him intently, he said to Constance,—

“Oin’t youse goin’ to invite de doc?”

Miss Durant coloured as she said, with a touch of eagerness yet shyness, “Dr. Armstrong, I intended to ask you, and it will give me a great deal of pleasure if you will come to Swot’s and my festival.” And when the doctor seemed to hesitate, she added, “Please!” in a way that would have very much surprised any man of her own circle.

“Thank you, Miss Durant; I’ll gladly come, if you are sure I sha’n’t be an interloper.”

“Not at all,” responded the girl. “On the contrary, it would be sadly incomplete without you—”

“Say,” broke in the youngster, “growed-up folks don’t git tings off de tree, does dey?”

Both Constance and the doctor laughed at the obvious fear in the boy’s mind.

“No, Swot,” the man replied; “and I’ve had my Christmas gift from Miss Durant already.”

“Wot wuz dat?”

“Ask her,” replied Dr. Armstrong, as he walked away.

“Wot have youse guv ’im?”

Constance laughed, and blushed still more deeply, as, after a slight pause, she replied, “It’s my turn, Swot, to say ‘rubber’?” This said, she stooped impulsively and kissed the boy’s forehead. “You are a dear, Swot,” she asserted, warmly.

With the mooting of the Christmas tree, the interest in Old Sleuth markedly declined, being succeeded by innumerable surmises of the rapidly convalescing boy as to the probable nature and number of the gifts it would bear. In this he was not discouraged by Miss Durant, who, once the readings were discontinued, brought a bit of fancy-work for occupation.

“Wot’s dat?” he inquired, the first time she produced it.

“A case for handkerchiefs.”

“For me?”

“Did you ever have a handkerchief?”

“Nop. An’ I’d radder have suttin’ else.”

“Can you keep a secret, Swot?”

“Bet youse life.”

“This is for Dr. Armstrong.”

Swot regarded it with new interest. “Youse goin’ to s’prise ’im?”

“Yes.”

“Den youse must sneak it quick w’en he comes in.”

“Haven’t you noticed that he doesn’t come here any longer, Swot?” quietly responded the girl, her head bowed over the work.

“Oin’t dat luck!”

“Why?” asked Constance, looking up in surprise.

“’Cause youse can work on de present,” explained Swot. “Say,” he demanded after a pause, “if dere’s anyting on de tree dat Ise don’t cares for, can Ise give it to de doc?”

“Certainly. Or better still, if you’ll find out what he would like, I’ll let you make him a present.”

“Youse payin’ for it?” anxiously questioned the boy.

“Of course.”

“Dat’s Jim Dandy!”

Miss Durant recurred to this offer twice in the succeeding week, but to her surprise, found Swot’s apparent enthusiasm over the gift had entirely cooled, and his one object was a seeming desire to avoid all discussion of it.

“Don’t you want to give him something, or haven’t you found out what he wants?” she was driven to ask.

“Oh, dat’s all right. Don’t youse tire youself ’bout dat,” was his mysterious reply. Nor could she extract anything more satisfactory.

It was a very different Swot McGarrigle who was helped into Miss Durant’s carriage by the doctor on Christmas eve from the one who had been lifted out at the hospital some six weeks before. The wizened face had filled out into roundness, and the long-promised new clothes, donned for the first time in honor of the event, even more transformed him; so changed him, in fact, that Constance hesitated for an instant in her welcome, in doubt if it were he.

“I have the tree in my own room, because I wanted all the fun to ourselves,” she explained, as she led the way upstairs, “and downstairs we should almost certainly be interrupted by callers, or something. But before you go, Dr. Armstrong, I want you to meet my family, and of course they all want to see Swot.”

It was not a large nor particularly brilliant tree, but to Swot it was everything that was beautiful. At first he was afraid to approach, but after a little Constance persuaded him into a walk around it, and finally tempted him, by an artful mention of what was in one of the larger packages at the base, to treat it more familiarly. Once the ice was broken, the two were quickly seated on the floor, Constance cutting strings, and Swot giving shouts of delight at each new treasure. Presently, in especial joy over some prize, the boy turned to show it to the doctor, to discover that he was standing well back, watching, rather than sharing, in the pleasure of the two; and, as the little chap discovered the aloofness, he leaned over and whispered something to the girl.

“I want to, but can’t get the courage yet,” whispered back Constance. “I don’t know what is the matter with me, Swot,” she added, blushing.

“Like me to guv it to ’im?”

“Oh, will you, Swot?” she eagerly demanded. “It’s the parcel in tissue-paper on my desk over there.”

The waif rose to his feet and trotted to the place indicated. He gave a quick glance back at Miss Durant, and seeing that she was leaning over a bundle, he softly unfolded the tissue-paper, slipped something from his newly possessed breast pocket into the handkerchief-case, and refolded the paper. He crossed the room to where the doctor was standing, and handed him the parcel, with the remark, “Dat’s for youse, from Miss Constance an’ me, doc.” Then scurrying back to the side of the girl, he confided to her, “Ise guv de doc a present, too.”

“What was it?” asked Constance, still not looking up.

“Go an’ ask ’im,” chuckled Swot.

Turned away as she might be, she was not unconscious of the doctor’s movements, and she was somewhat puzzled when, instead of coming to her with thanks, he crossed the room to a bay-window, where he was hidden by the tree from both of them. From that point he still further astonished her by the request,—

“Can you—will you please come here for a moment, Miss Durant?”

Constance rose and walked to where he stood. “I hope you like my gift?” she asked.

“You could have given me nothing I have so wanted—nothing I shall treasure more,” said the man, speaking low and fervently. “But did you realise what this would mean to me?” As he spoke, he raised his hand, and Constance saw, not the handkerchief-case, but a photograph of herself.

“Oh!” she gasped. “Where—I didn’t—that was a picture I gave to Swot. The case is my gift,”

The doctor’s hand dropped, and all the hope and fire went from his eyes. “I beg your pardon for being so foolish, Miss Durant. I—I lost my senses for a moment—or I would have known that you never—that the other was your gift.” He stooped to pick it up from the floor where he had dropped it. “Thank you very deeply for your kindness, and—and try to forget my folly.”

“I—I—couldn’t understand why Swot suddenly—why he—I never dreamed of his doing it,” faltered the girl.

“His and my knowledge of social conventions are about on a par,” responded the man, with a set look to his mouth. “Shall I give it back to him or to you?”

Constance drew a deep breath. “It wasn’t—my—gift—but—but—I don’t mind your keeping it if you wish.”

“You mean—?” cried Dr. Armstrong, incredulously.

“Oh,” said the girl, hurriedly, “isn’t that enough, now? Please, oh, please—wait—for a little.”

The doctor caught her hand and kissed it. “Till death, if you ask it!” he said.

Five minutes later Swot abstracted himself sufficiently from his gifts to peep around the tree and ecstatically inquire,—

“Say, oin’t dis de doisiest Christmas dat ever wuz?”

“Yes,” echoed the two in the bay-window.

“Did youse like me present, doc?”

“Yes,” reiterated the doctor, with something in his voice that gave the word tenfold meaning.

“Ise tought youse ’ud freeze to it, an’ it wuzn’t no sorter good to me.”

Constance laughed happily. “Still, I’m very glad I gave it to you, Swot,” she said, with a glance of the eyes, half shy and half arch, at the man beside her.

“Did youse like Miss Constance’s present too, doc?”

“Yes,” replied the doctor, “especially the one you haven’t seen, Swot.”

“Wot wuz dat?”

“A something called hope—which is the finest thing in the world.”

“No. There is one thing better,” said Miss Durant.

“What is it?”

“Love!” whispered Constance, softly.