CHAPTER XXIIWAITING

"A maiden named Peggy Van C——Sailed far from New York State and me!And she played the pianner,And won prize and banner,In ev'ry conservato-ree."But my honest American nameShe spurned to my sorrow and shame,For she said 'I shan't marryWith Tom, Dick and Harry,I'm looking for much higher game."'With my excellent banking accountTo royalty's height I may mount.'She ran into her fate,But discovered too lateHe was called in Burke's book—no (a) count."

"Congratulations, Ted," said Margaret. "I recognise your dainty touch in this."

Ted looked innocent.

"Why should all blame and anger dreadFall straight upon my luckless head?"

he murmured. "John Thomas, I see you drew a prize. What is it?"

John Thomas had been examining his parcel, and his face was very red. He held up two scarlet hearts impaled on a long tin arrow.

"I don't want to read the po'try," he said bashfully.

"Oh, yes," begged Miss Billy. "Go on, John Thomas. What doyoucare? It's all in fun."

The boy unfolded the paper obediently.

"He lives next door to Billy Lee,He smiles at her incessantly,His name they say is Hennes-sy,And John."He little knows her temper bad,He's never seen her when she's mad.Misguided youth! His lot is sad,——Poor John."

"Nonsense," said Miss Billy. "Your sentiments are as bad as your poetry, Ted. What's yours, Bea?"

Beatrice had a pair of huge scarlet carpet slippers, ornamented with a large bow of ribbon. Theodore read the verses:

"A pair of red slippers hung high in a shop,Sing hey for the slippers so red!And a maid passed that way and I saw the maid stop,'I'll buy me the slippers,' she said."The pair of red slippers came down from the shelf,Sing hey for the slippers so small!And the maiden remarked, undertone, to herself,'They'll look awful swell at a ball.'"The pair of red slippers were jaunty and low,Sing hey for the slippers so gay!'But I don't want buckles, I wanted a bow,'I heard the maid woefully say."The pair of red slippers were wrapped up and tied,Sing hey for the pocketbook low!And a youth who was near sauntered home at her side,So the maid got the slippers and beau."

Marie Jean unwrapped her package with an expectant expression. A large beet, cut in half, and carefully stuck together with toothpicks surrounded the following verse:

"There's a secret in my heart, Sweet Marie,A tale I would impart, love, to thee.Every lad in Cherry StreetKneels in ardour at thy feet,You've a face that can't be beet, Sweet Marie."

"I never heard such wretched puns," declared Margaret. "There's one consolation,—therecan'tbe anything worse than that. What's yours, Mr. Francis?"

Francis bowed gallantly to Miss Billy. "Ladies first," he said.

A small green watering pot was unrolled from a newspaper, and several verses tumbled out.

"Mistress Billy,Pray don't be chilly!How does your garden grow?With beautiful posiesAnd lilies and roses,And sunflowers all in a row."Mistress BillyI must rhyme—willy nilly,—How does your garden grow?With small smiling facesAll found in their placesAnd little ones all in a row."Mistress Billy,Don't think me sillyThus does your garden grow,With hard work and dutyAnd sweetness and beauty,And faith, hope, and love in a row."

Miss Billy's voice shook a little as she finished reading, and there was something suspiciously shiny in her eyes as she glanced at her brother. But Ted was looking serenely the other way.

Francis' package held a fat pocketbook labelled:

"Sing a song of sixpence.Pocketful of mon.,Rent day Francis has it all,Cherry Street has none.Never mind! His praises loudCherry Street doth sing—Francis may not be a count,But he is a king."

"Goodness!" said the reader, "I don't know whether I dare eat another cake after that. I'm already bursting withpride; Miss Billy, won't you share this with me?" He held out the last pancake on the plate invitingly. Miss Billy's knife divided it evenly and a slender circlet tinkled out on the dish.

"The ring!" said Marie Jean. "You'll have to draw lots."

"Or else share your fate," suggested Margaret.

"Now me," said Ted in a tone of mock anticipation. "You haven't seen my souvenir yet." He unrolled a box of French bonbons, and passed it around the table, as he read:

"There was a young person named Ted.'I'll write some fine doggerel,' he said.But his verse read aloudIn the midst of the crowdWas all pronounced mongrel instead."

"And that's the truest one of all," said Margaret.

“The strange white solitude of peaceThat settles over all.”

IF it was anybody else but Miss Billy," sighed Mrs. Canary.

Mrs. Hennesy pulled her shawl down over her swollen eyes, and made no reply.

"I've just been in there, an' her fever's higher. She just raved an' tossed all night," went on Mrs. Canary.

"I was on me way there, now," said Mrs. Hennesy,—"but I guess I'll not go in, afther hearing how she is. Folks around a sick house is only a clutter."

"I know it,—but I can't hardly keep away. Seems as if Imustdo something fer that poor lamb, after all the times she's helped me, takin' care of the childurn an' all. She's just workedherself to death tryin' to keep Cherry Street clean, an' all this summer, that's what she has,—an' no pertic'lar thanks fer it, neither."

"I guess it's not all work that's done it," said Mrs. Hennesy significantly. "It's that ould ciss-pool between us and the Lee's that's been p'isoning her. The wondher is we're not all dead. And afther all the times we've spoke about it to old man Schultzsky, too. Well, I hope he'll mate his reward in the nixt wurld, if he don't in this."

"Do you know, they say he feels awful bad about it. Just walks 'round like a hen on a hot griddle. Don't ask fer no news of her, but just can't settle down easy anywhere. I should think hewouldbeprosteratedwith grief! An' he wouldn't be the only one! Everybody on the street feels the same way. Her sickness has just cast a shadder over everything. I never seen the beat of it."

Mrs. Hennesy's broad Irish face grew almost beautiful in its tenderness. "I feel like she was wan av me own," she said softly. "Nowan, not even the dear child herself, knows what she has done for us! John Thomas hasn't spoke a word about the house for a wake. Miss Billy has done wondhers for that bye. If you could see him workin' over his lessons, an' tidyin' up the yard, an' trainin' up the few bits of vines he's planted! An' Mary Jane, she didn't like her at first, but sure her heart is broke now. As for Mr. Hennesy and mesilf,—well, there's no way to tell how we feel about it."

"I guess we're all mournin' together," said Mrs. Canary. "Mr. Canary wouldn't tech fish fer dinner,—Holly Belle is all stuffed up with tears, an' Friddie hangs round their door till I just expect Mis' Lee'll throw water on him to git red of him. The children are all a-prayin' for her ev'ry night, an' if God kin resest their innercent pleadin' it's more'n I could do."

"It's Cherry Street that's nadin' her more than Hivin does," said Mrs. Hennesy.

"I guess it does!" exclaimed Mrs. Canary fervently. "We can't do without her. Thechildren just fairly adore her image, the big boys and girls all love her, and the fathers and mothers need her the most of all. If she'd never done a thing fer us but to show that pretty smile of hers, an' let us see her eyes shine, an' hear her sweet voice, we'd miss her enough: but rememberin' all shehasdone——" Words failed the good woman, and her sentence ended abruptly.

"I suppose there's not a thing a person could do to help," said Mrs. Hennesy.

"Not a thing. The house is full of flowers, and things to eat. They've got a nurse that looks like striped stick candy, an' two doctors, an' more offers of help than they know what to do with. There ain't a thingwecan do but watch—an' pray. An' if the Lord sees fit to call her Home——"

But Mrs. Hennesy, drawing the shawl again over her eyes, turned away.

The mist of Indian summer lay like a veil over Cherry Street. Out in the garden MissBilly's flowers were still blooming. The vines were breaking into crisp little tendrils about her window, the La France rose bush was heavy with buds, and the grass was as green and tender as when her feet had last pressed it. Miss Billy's friend, the bulldog, slept serenely on the Lee porch, and her canary trilled softly in the autumn sunshine.

Life seemed to have vanished from the street itself. Down near the Levi house two wooden saw-horses and a plank had been placed across the road to block all traffic, and Policeman Canary paced back and forth to ward off intruders. Grocery boys and butcher lads came and went on foot, and the children who played in the back yards were hushed and subdued by watchful parents "for Miss Billy's sake." Silence reigned everywhere, and the chirping of the twittering sparrows, thatcouldnot be hushed, was the only sound that broke the stillness.

Upstairs, in the little green room, where the only movement was the stirring of the thincurtains in the soft wind, lay the girl herself. The active feet were quiet, the busy hands were folded and the dancing eyes were closed. There was nothing about the passive figure that was like Miss Billy. Even the mass of copper-brown hair had been cut away. But this death-like stupor was less terrifying than the intervals of raging fever in which Miss Billy laughed, sang and talked, and lived over and over again her girlish trials and hopes and fears.

"It's such hard work," she would say, tossing restlessly from side to side in the little bed. "Such hard work! Mr. Schultzsky, it's a lie, I tell you. He didn't hit your horse, I saw it all! It's a lie, I tell you. I didn't mean to hurt you! It's my fault, though, not Ted's!... Oh, Ted, you didn't need to step on my grass seed. Why won't you let things grow? It's so hot, so hot, here. Beatrice, you needn't be so mean! He's a friend of mine. Why won't you be kind to him? Please do, please do. He's helped me so."

Then the busy brain would go back to the old life:

"Myrtle Blanchard called us poor. I don't want to be poor. I hate it. I hate Cherry Street! I hate heat! I'msotired!"

It was when the fever was at its height that the family first guessed the depth of Miss Billy's feeling, for in her delirium she talked wildly of wanting to go back "home," away from Cherry Street, to where everything was "quiet and clean." She longed for Margaret's home-coming, and begged piteously that the Blanchards might not "come in." And then the wild look would disappear, and she would drop back on the pillow with the same old pathetic cry: "I'm so tired.Sotired."

So day after day passed. Delirium, restlessness, pain and weakness filled Miss Billy's waking hours, and the only peace came when she sank into a deep stupor, which was almost as fearful to the watchers. The work of the Improvement Club had been abandoned. Tedapplied himself industriously to school, and Beatrice found her only comfort in doing housework that gave her no time to think, and left her so physically tired at night that sleep came, after all. Mrs. Van Courtland almost lived at the house, and Margaret, Francis and John Thomas came daily, to hear the reports and bring comfort and help. The members of the Child Garden hung about the gate, begging for news, Mrs. Hennesy waylaid the doctor each morning, and Mrs. Levi sent Moses to the door with a new dainty every day. The life on Cherry Street seemed to centre about the one small room in the old-fashioned house, and the whole street waited and hoped while the autumn sped, and Miss Billy grew no better.

It was after one of the worst days that Beatrice crept out of the room, with her heart full, and her eyes overflowing with tears. She felt her way blindly downstairs, and almost bumped into Francis, who was standing in the dark hall.

"I didn't ring," he said. "Howisthe little girl?"

Beatrice sat down on the stairs, and grasped the railing tightly as though its dumb wood could offer her some help and support.

"Worse," she said.

Francis' face looked his sympathy.

"Howis she worse?" he asked.

"She's been raving for two hours. Dr. Lane has sent for Dr. Howitt. Her temperature has never been so high."

"Is she in great—danger?"

Beatrice nodded. "They don't say so, but——" Her voice failed her.

"Is there anything I can do?"

"Not a thing. The nurse is there, and mother and father don't leave her for an instant. She doesn't even need me. If there was anything to be done,—but to sit and wait is so awful!—I'm going down now to make a cup of tea for mother. She looks like a ghost."

"And so do you, poor little girl." He laid his strong brown hand over the small white one onthe railing. Beatrice sat still for a moment, and then, laying her head on her arm, cried her heart out.

"I can't give her up," she sobbed wildly. "I can't! I can't! I never knew before what she was to me. And all this summer when she has been toiling away over her children and the weeds and the street, I have sat and criticised, and discouraged her. I have been so selfish, so small and so mean! Oh, I don't deserve to have Miss Billy, but if she lives, I'll love God all my life. I can't spare her now."

Francis laid his hand softly upon the bowed golden head, and waited until the paroxysm of sobs had passed.

"I can't tell you how sorry I am," he said gently. "I love Miss Billy, too, you know. But there is nothing for us to do but wait and—hope. I shan't give up yet. Come down with me and let me make you the tea. You need it as much as your mother."

The night came down softly on Cherry Street. The shadows deepened and the silvercrescent of the new moon appeared in the sky. Dr. Howitt arrived and went immediately to the sick room. The nurse passed through the hall with a glass of wine. Supper was announced, and was cleared away untasted. Beatrice and Theodore sat silently in the study. At nine o'clock the nurse came down the stairs again.

"Mrs. Lee says for you both to go to bed. She will call you if there's the slightest change. If you can get any sleep, so much the better. And Mr. Theodore, there's a boy out in the yard."

Beatrice obediently followed the nurse upstairs, and Ted went quietly out of the door. A dark figure could be dimly seen striding up and down in the faint light cast from Miss Billy's room. Theodore rounded the porch, and stopped the shadowy form in its march. It was John Thomas.

"How is she?" he whispered.

Ted shook his head despairingly, without a word.

"You'd better go to bed," said John Thomas.

"So had you," returned Ted.

"I can't sleep," exclaimed the figure.

Ted turned stiffly. "Neither can I," he said. His feet seemed to tangle in the wet grass as he walked toward the house again.

"So long," said John Thomas hoarsely.

"So long," returned Theodore.

A restless sleep had just fallen on Theodore when there was a light rap on the door. "Come," said the nurse. "There is a change. Your mother has sent for you. As quiet as possible, please." The boy flung on his bath robe, and hurried into the hall. Beatrice had just come out from her room. The sister and brother clasped hands and went on together.

In Miss Billy's room the light had been turned very low. Dr. Howitt had gone. The family doctor stood near the window. Mr. Lee sat by the bedside with a look upon his worn face that the children had never seen. His wife was on her knees, with one of the palehands clasped in her own, as though the mother's grasp would hold the child in spite of Death. A soft grey shadow seemed to have fallen over Miss Billy's face, and she lay in deep stupor.

The little group gathered around the bed, and waited. The minutes slowly passed, Miss Billy's small clock ticking them off with an intensity that was almost painful.

The grey light began to grow in the eastern window, and a soft breeze blew in from the lake. The glimmer of the lamp paled as the room grew lighter. Afar off a dog barked, and one of Mr. Hennesy's roosters heralded the coming of the new day. The first glow of red light had appeared in the sky, when Miss Billy moved slightly in the bed.

"Mother," she whispered. Then she opened her eyes wide, with a hint of the old-time smile. "Has the morning come?" she asked. "I've had bad dreams."

“Against the whiteness of the wallBe living verdure seen,—Sweet summer memories to recall,And keep your Christmas green.”

ALL through the long hot summer months Miss Billy had been doing what she could for Cherry Street. Now Cherry Street was doing what it could for Miss Billy.

"Grass, is it, she'd be afther loikin' to see, whin she gits up?" said Mr. Hennesy. "Sure an' we're ploughin' good sod undher iv'ry day av our lives,—loads av it. John Thomas, see that ye bring home a wagon load of it 'ach noight, an' O'il be doin' the same."

John Thomas brought the sod, and the street fell to with a will. Dusk fell earlierthan in the summer, but there was still time left after the day's labour was over and the supper cleared away. The children dug and raked the hard soil, and the men rolled the velvety sod into strips of green parking bordering the sidewalks, and spread it into green lawns in their own dooryards. The enthusiasm spread like a fever. Aaron Levi's father brought home a can of paint, and began experimentally to turn his shabby brown house into a white house with green blinds. The street beheld, and hurried to do likewise, scarcely waiting for Francis' assurance that every cent of expense should be taken off the rent. Every house was freshly painted,—and because the underlying thought was of Miss Billy, and because they thought she would like it so, they painted uniformly white, with green blinds.

Besides all this, down the middle of the street a score of men, day after day, threw up the rocky soil into long mounds, and at last the sewer pipe that was to connect with every dwelling, was laid, with all Cherry Street looking into the hole, as if it had been the dedication of a church. No more cesspools and typhoid fever for Cherry Street! It had been too near to losing Miss Billy. But Mr. Schultzsky would have made the concession for none other.

The Street Improvement Club, cast at first into the depths of despair at their brave little captain's grave illness, and raised now to heights of enthusiasm by her convalescence, were everywhere! Chewing gum wrappers were voted a nuisance: Paper bags were frowned upon: Banana skins were not to be tolerated: Tomato cans were a crime! Everywhere over the street presided a new goddess,—the Goddess of Cleanliness,—while the girl who had wrought the change lay in the little green room, being slowly nursed back to life.

It was after the Improvement Club, under the advice of Francis, had taken the proceeds of the lawn social from the little tin box, and invested it in young shade trees, that proudly skirted the sidewalks twenty feet apart, thatFrancis snapped his final picture from the head of the street. After it was developed he compared it to that other taken on the August morning. The results appeared to satisfy him. "They are an object lesson," he said, "fit to point a moral or adorn a tale," and he mailed them in a big official looking envelope to "Peter Hanson, Florist,—New York,—Prize Street Competition."

It was this very day, too, that Miss Billy was placed in an easy chair, and taken to the window for the first time since her illness. "Oh, it's such a green world, motherie mine; such a beautiful, sunny, green world, that it hurts my eyes. And—why—but everything wasn't all green like that when I went to bed. What can have happened!"

"That is enough for to-day," said the nurse authoritatively, and Miss Billy was put back to bed. But she had caught a glimpse of Mr. Schultzsky's house, and it was painted white!—Of the little Bohemian maid swinging placidly to and fro in the rocking chair on an immaculate little white porch!—Of a stretch of restful green grass, where before had been weeds!—and right in the middle of the front yard had bloomed a huge tub of scarlet geraniums! ("She will like to see that," Francis had said,—and through the long beautiful fall which stretched into December, he had placed a covering over the flowers every night to protect them from possible frosts.) Miss Billy had seen, and two hectic spots of excitement burned on her cheeks.

"Cherry Street is remodelled, inside and out," said Mrs. Lee gently. "Francis has made Mr. Schultzsky see the expense of it in the light of a sound business proposition, and the rest of it has been done by the people themselves, for love of you. But there, little daughter,—it's nothing to cry about!"

"I'm not crying," said Miss Billy valiantly, the big tears chasing each other down her cheeks. "Don't you see that I'm laughing, and happy, and thankful? Oh, it is so nice to come back to this dear, beautiful world!"

There were informal receptions held in the little green room as she grew daily stronger. Marie Jean, still with the trailing dresses, but with the heavy frizzes forever gone,—John Thomas, freckled of face and worshipful, alert to Miss Billy's slightest wish,—Mr. Hennesy, brimful of cheer and whimsical philosophy,—Mrs. Hennesy, overflowing with kindness and neighbourly apologies,—Mr. Schultzsky, stoical, yet changed,—Holly Belle, who whispered with shy blushes that beside her finger exercises Miss Margaret had given her a "piece," with variations: and every day Margaret and Francis, and the members of the Improvement Club, who sat about and gazed at Miss Billy restored to them and were thankful.

It was the eighteenth of December when the first snow came sifting down. It covered the green lawns, and wrapped the young shade trees, and whitened the roofs of the little white houses. And not till then did Cherry Street remember that summer was gone and Christmas was near.

"We'll have a Christmas tree big enough for everybody," said Theodore. "John Thomas and I will go out and buy the largest we can find, and set it up in the parlour."

"Oh, it will be fine," said Margaret, clapping her hands. "Let us get at it right away."

The Christmas tree was brought, a noble fir,—and set up in the corner of the parlour amidst much bustle and confusion and laughter. John Thomas popped the corn, Miss Billy threaded it in whitened strings, Francis tacked up the evergreen boughs and holly, while Beatrice assisted,—a pretty picture with the heavy foliage held high above her head, and her sleeves falling away from her white arms. Margaret, in the kitchen, was aiding Maggie in making the cherished Christmas "pfeffernes," and as the little German cakes baked, the sweet spicy smell filled the air.

Theodore, on a stepladder, was hanging the mistletoe. "It smells Christmassy already," he announced hungrily. "Why doesn't Margaret make a bushel of those things? I couldeat all she has there at one bite. Marie Jean, just hand me up a bit of that red ribbon, will you?"

Marie Jean's long arm stretched up the ladder, and Theodore leaned down. There was a resounding smack, and Marie Jean, with a scream of agitation, tripped over a rug and fell headlong into the arms of the Christmas tree.

"Land o' love!" she ejaculated, extricating herself from the branches. "Theodore Lee, I've a mind to slap you."

"The mistletoe hung in the castle hall,The holly branch shone on the old oak wall,"

recited Theodore, putting as much feeling as he could into it without swallowing the tacks in his mouth. "Marie Jean, I expect to slay my thousands under this thing. But if you'd like to slap me, you can come again and try it."

"No, thanks," said Marie Jean, settling her ruffled plumage with dignity.

"Now," went on the irrepressible Theodore, "if good Kris Kringle will only hang awig on the Christmas tree for Miss Billy,—nothing expensive or rich, of course, like her own hair was—but——"

Involuntarily Miss Billy's hands flew up to her shorn locks, but John Thomas came sturdily to the defence.

"Miss Billy's a heap prettier with her hair short like that, and curling all over her head in little rings. She wasn't half so pretty when it was long."

"John Thomas," said Theodore, with a pitying stare, "it's my opinion that you would think Miss Billy handsome if she was as bald as a Chinese mandarin. It's a prominent symptom of the disease."

John Thomas returned abruptly to his popcorn, and Miss Billy, in the absence of anything better, and with a flash of the old time fire in her eyes, threw a handful of popcorn at the tormentor.

"Perhaps you would like to sample these cakes," said Margaret, standing floury and smiling in the doorway, with a plate in herhand. "Francis, it is less than six months ago that you and I sat in the mud of a side street in Cologne, while a rain of these lovely little cakes fell about our devoted heads. I little thought I should be making some for you at Christmas time."

"We cannot foretell the future," said Theodore solemnly. "Next Christmas—who knows?—we may all be in 'der faderland,' honourable attachees of the household of the Count and Countess Lindsay. Miss Billy can be 'lady in waiting,' and hold up your sky-blue green pink train, Margaret,—and John Thomas can be Buttons at the front door——"

"The last five months have certainly been an unexpected and pleasant experience for me," interrupted Francis. "But play time is over. I shall be off for New York Saturday."

"To stay—forever?" appealed Miss Billy piteously. "Oh, Francis,—I can't spare you."

There were tears in her eyes, and he took the small white hand between his own brown palms.

"Not forever, Miss Billy," he said gently. "I hope to come back again,—many times; and some of the goodness, and brightness, and helpfulness of Cherry Street shall always be with me, wherever I am."

"And I," said Margaret, with a little sigh, "shall return to Cologne next month; I, too, shall miss Cherry Street, but nothing shall sadden me now that Billy is well."

"I have a lump in my throat as I dwell upon the inevitableness of human destiny," said Theodore. "But honestly, Lindsay, we shall miss you. As for you, Margaret,

"Maid ofCol-ogne, ere we part,Give, O give me back my heart."

"You gave it to Marie Jean the night of the lawn social," rejoined Margaret promptly. "I didn't want it, you know,—it was so warm and sticky."

"And I didn't know what to do with it, so I ate it," said Marie Jean, with a giggle. "I remember it was flavoured with peppermint."

"Cannibal!" murmured Theodore,—and lapsed into injured silence.

Beatrice and Francis had returned to the holly wreaths. "We shall be sorry to have you go," she said, her eyes on the branches in her lap. "What you said about Cherry Street made me want to cry. I, certainly, in the past, have not been a part of the goodness and brightness and helpfulness. Before you go, let me tell you I am sorry for everything."

"And I am glad." He took from her lap as he spoke a bit of the holly and broke it in two. "Keep this," he said, "and I shall keep the other half, 'sweet summer memories to recall,'—till I come again."

Christmas eve fell softly upon Cherry Street wrapped in its snowy mantle, with a pale silver moon like a crescent of promise, shining low down in the west.

"When I saw it last," said Holly Belle, "it was over my left shoulder, and I thought Miss Billy was goin' to die."

"An' I heard the death tick in the wall," said Mrs. Canary, "an' dreampt of white horses three nights hand runnin'. I never knew the signs to fail before."

"Signs can't hurt Miss Billy," said Holly Belle with conviction, as she hastened the little Canarys into their holiday attire. "She don't believe in 'em—nor dream books, nor nothin'. An' I ain't a-goin' to after this, neither."

"Holly Belle," said Mrs. Canary impressively, "the night yer grandfather died I was a sittin' there by the window——"

"I don't care," broke in Holly Belle stoutly: ("Fridoline, hold up yer chin! How can I fasten yer necktie when yer leanin' it down like that!)—I don't care fer all the old signs in the world. Miss Billy don't believe in 'em, an' I ain't a-goin' to, neither."

In the Hennesy home, Mr. Hennesy had brought out the ancient coat, and was struggling into one of John Thomas's collars. It was fastened at last, and Mr. Hennesy regarded his appearance in the glass with interest. "All Oi do be nadin'," he commented, "is a check rein from the top av me head to me shoulder blades, to make me be lookin' loike a four-year-old colt. John Thomas, wan av these days whin ye go to bite off a bit av tough mate, ye'll hit on wan av these aidges an' cut yer jugglery vein. Moind now, what O'im sayin'."

“All Oi do be nadin’” ... “is a check rein from the topav me head to me shoulder blades.”

At Number 12 Cherry Street there was warmth and light and glow. Out in the kitchen the smiling Maggie presided over two boilers of coffee and a table full of iced cakes and confections. As the guests began to arrive the folding doors between the minister's study and the parlour were thrown open, and the Christmas tree, glowing with coloured balls and wax tapers, stood revealed. The Street Improvement Club, to a man, greeted the glittering spectacle with delight, but the ecstasy of some of the younger members became suddenly extinguished in their mothers' skirts at the sudden appearance of an exceedingly corpulent Saint Nicholas in the parlour door.

"Ladies and Gentlemen,—Members of the Street Improvement Club and Fellow Citizens:" began the jolly Saint, keeping his whiskers applied with one hand, and gesticulating gracefully with the other;—"Owing to a stringency in the money market, this tree is mostly made up of tarlatan bags containing nuts, candy and popcorn, with verses of excellent poetry thrown in. You will observe that the greater share of the gifts seem to be for the children, and for young ladies between the ages of sixteen and twenty,—but there are a few trinkets for all, and plenty of good will beside."

Here the good Saint paused, and was obliged to hold on his whiskers with both hands, and he viewed the facial contortions of Ikey Levi, who wanted to cry and was afraid the Saint might not like it.

"I find here, attached to one of the most prominent branches," went on Saint Nicholas, "a charming female savage in a short skirt and a feather head-dress. It is marked 'forMarie Jean Hennesy, from Theodore L—.' It also bears this inscription:

"This tender maid of dusky shade,Eats lovers' hearts,—beware!She'll take them raw, like cabbage slaw,Or overdone or rare.

"Will Miss Hennesy step up to receive her gift? I regret that Mr. Theodore cannot be with us this evening to receive his thanks in person.

"Here also, is a beautiful toy omnibus, from the same benevolent source, with a pair of spirited horses attached, and a handsome driver atop. It is marked 'Miss Billy,' and the following tender verse accompanies it:

"A maiden once reasoned her thus—'I think I shall hire a whole bus:'She rode on the top, and the people did stopAnd declared that it couldn't be wuss!

"I regret that I do not find a snuff box on the boughs for Herr Lindsay. In its absence I shall beg him to accept the trifling gift of this tin trumpet, that he may be able to blowhis own horn when he is far away, and Cherry Street can no longer blow it for him. Is Mr. Lindsay present?"

The gifts were being rapidly distributed, and the jolly Saint's charming speeches could no longer be heard above the happy talk and laughter. Holly Belle hugged a leather music roll and a copy of "Five Little Peppers" to her breast, Ikey Levi played the long roll on a red drum, Pius Coffey made his toilet before the wee-est of pocket mirrors, with the wee-est of pocket combs, and Beatrice held a single long-stemmed American Beauty rose in her hand, when Saint Nicholas rapped loudly for order.

"I find here, on the very topmost bough," he announced, "a blue envelope addressed to Miss Wilhelmina Lee, President of Cherry Street Improvement Club. Open it and read it aloud, Miss Billy."

Miss Billy cut the sealed edge, and a slip of blue paper fluttered to the floor. Then with surprise, delight, excitement and wavering distrust in her tones, she read aloud the following letter:

"New York,December 22, 19—."Miss Wilhelmina Lee,"President Improvement Club,"Cherry Street, J—— City."Dear Madam:—"We herewith enclose you our check for one hundred dollars, as agreed by us in our prize offer of August last. The pictures you sent easily won the prize for marked street improvement, although there were many competitors. Wishing you all success in your work,"We are"Very respectfully,"Peter Hanson & Co.,"Florists, New York."

"New York,December 22, 19—.

"Miss Wilhelmina Lee,"President Improvement Club,"Cherry Street, J—— City.

"Dear Madam:—

"We herewith enclose you our check for one hundred dollars, as agreed by us in our prize offer of August last. The pictures you sent easily won the prize for marked street improvement, although there were many competitors. Wishing you all success in your work,

"We are

"Very respectfully,

"Peter Hanson & Co.,"Florists, New York."

"Is it a joke?" said Miss Billy, looking at Saint Nicholas as if she didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

But the good Saint, holding his whiskers in his hand in the excitement of the moment, had stooped to the floor for the bit of blue paper, and was examining it closely in the glow of the tree.

"It's genuine, all right," he answered. "It's Peter Hanson's check for one hundred dollars on the First National Bank of New York."

"It came this afternoon," said Francis smilingly,—"and knowing what it might be, I received it and put it on the tree for you. I took the last snap shot and sent it away while you were ill, Miss Billy."

A prolonged, mighty, deafening cheer went up from the assembled throats of the Improvement Club,—a glorified cheer,—a cheer of triumph, pride, and growing strength, with cat-calls innumerable tacked on to the end. The astonished Maggie, entering the door with a tray piled high with plates and napkins, was brushed lightly aside by Mr. Hennesy.

"Clare the middle av the room," he shouted in stentorian tones: "I'm a-goin' to cut a pigeon wing."

"Three cheers for Miss Billy," proposed Francis.

"And now a tiger for Francis," returnedMiss Billy, and the hubbub, but just ended, rose again.

"An' another fer the frinds av the Club," said Mr. Hennesy, shaking hands right and left with everybody.

Saint Nicholas, with his whiskers readjusted, rapped once more for order. "Let me suggest, my friends," he said, "that we give one last lusty cheer for Cherry Street. One, two, three—Now!"

THE END

Dorothy SouthA Love Story of Virginia Before the WarBy GEORGE CARY EGGLESTONAuthor of "A Carolina Cavalier"Illustrated by C.D. Williams. 12mo, dark red cloth,portrait cover, rough edges, gilt top, $1.50THIS distinguished author gives us a most fascinating picture of Virginia's golden age, her fair sons and daughters, beautiful, picturesque homes, and the luxurious, bountiful life of the old-school gentleman. Dorothy South has been described in these characteristic words by Frank R. Stockton: "Learned, lovely; musical, lovely; loving, lovely; so goes Dorothy through the book, and sad would be the fate of poor Arthur Brent, and all of us, if she could be stolen out of it." This is a typically pretty story, clear and sweet and pure as the Southern sky.Lothrop Publishing Company—Boston

Dorothy South

A Love Story of Virginia Before the War

By GEORGE CARY EGGLESTONAuthor of "A Carolina Cavalier"

Illustrated by C.D. Williams. 12mo, dark red cloth,portrait cover, rough edges, gilt top, $1.50

THIS distinguished author gives us a most fascinating picture of Virginia's golden age, her fair sons and daughters, beautiful, picturesque homes, and the luxurious, bountiful life of the old-school gentleman. Dorothy South has been described in these characteristic words by Frank R. Stockton: "Learned, lovely; musical, lovely; loving, lovely; so goes Dorothy through the book, and sad would be the fate of poor Arthur Brent, and all of us, if she could be stolen out of it." This is a typically pretty story, clear and sweet and pure as the Southern sky.

Lothrop Publishing Company—Boston

A Carolina CavalierA Romance of the CarolinasBy GEORGE CARY EGGLESTONBound in red silk cloth, Illustrated cover, gilt top, rough edges.Six drawings by C.D. Williams. Size, 5 × 7¾. Price $1.50Astrong, delightful romance of Revolutionary days, most characteristic of its vigorous author, George Cary Eggleston. The story is founded on absolute happenings and certain old papers of the historic Rutledges of Carolina. As a love story, it is sweet and true; and as a patriotic novel it is grand and inspiring. The historic setting, and the fact that it is distinctively and enthusiastically American, have combined to win instant success for the book.Louisville Courier Journal: "A fine story of adventure, teeming with life and aglow with color."Cleveland World: "There is action, plot, and fire. Love and valor and loyalty play a part that enhances one's respect for human nature."Baltimore Sun: "The story is full of movement. It is replete with adventure. It is saturated with love."Lothrop Publishing Company—Boston

A Carolina Cavalier

A Romance of the Carolinas

By GEORGE CARY EGGLESTON

Bound in red silk cloth, Illustrated cover, gilt top, rough edges.Six drawings by C.D. Williams. Size, 5 × 7¾. Price $1.50

Astrong, delightful romance of Revolutionary days, most characteristic of its vigorous author, George Cary Eggleston. The story is founded on absolute happenings and certain old papers of the historic Rutledges of Carolina. As a love story, it is sweet and true; and as a patriotic novel it is grand and inspiring. The historic setting, and the fact that it is distinctively and enthusiastically American, have combined to win instant success for the book.

Louisville Courier Journal: "A fine story of adventure, teeming with life and aglow with color."Cleveland World: "There is action, plot, and fire. Love and valor and loyalty play a part that enhances one's respect for human nature."Baltimore Sun: "The story is full of movement. It is replete with adventure. It is saturated with love."

Louisville Courier Journal: "A fine story of adventure, teeming with life and aglow with color."

Cleveland World: "There is action, plot, and fire. Love and valor and loyalty play a part that enhances one's respect for human nature."

Baltimore Sun: "The story is full of movement. It is replete with adventure. It is saturated with love."

Lothrop Publishing Company—Boston

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