Presents
It had taken a long time to choose his presents, but at last they were decided.
Isabel had made him a blue silk shaving tidy, with "Shaving" worked in pink across it. The "h-a-v" of "Shaving" were rather smaller than the other letters, because, after she had drawn a large "S," she was afraid there would not be room for such big letters. Afterwards she found there was plenty of room, so she did "i-n-g" bigger to make up for it.
After all, it really didn't matter unless you wereveryparticular; and of course you wouldn't see that the stitches showed rather badly on the inside unless you opened it. Besides, as grandpapa grew a beard, and didn't shave at all, he wouldn't want to look inside.
Peter had bought a knife for him; being a boy, and therefore rather helpless, he was not able to make him anything. He did begin to carve grandpapa a wooden ship, although Isabel pointed out to him that grandpapa would never sail it; but Peter thought he might like to have it just to look at.
However, just at an important part the wood split; so after all it had to be a knife, which of course is always useful.
These presents were kept very secret; not even mother was allowed to know what they were.
Three o'clock seemed such a long time coming—you know how slow itcanbe. But at half-past two nurse took them up to dress. Peter had a nice white serge suit, and nurse had put out a clean starched muslin for Isabel, but she (being rather a vain little girl) begged for her white silk.
I ought to explain about this frock. One of her aunties sent it to her on her last birthday. It was quite the most beautiful little dress you ever saw—thick white silk embroidered with daisies. Isabel loved it dearly, but was only allowed to wear it on very great occasions.
Well, when she asked if she might put it on, nurse said she thought it would be wiser not to. "You won't be able to run about and climb trees at your grandpapa's if you do, Miss Isabel."
"But I shan't want to," replied Isabel, "for it is a grown-up party, and we shall only sit and talk."
So after all she was allowed to wear it, and with that on and a beautiful new sash her Uncle Dick had just sent her from India, she felt a very smart little girl indeed.
The shaving tidy she had done up in a parcel, and Peter had the knife in his pocket, so they were quite ready, and as they went down to the hall the clock struck three.
Alas! there was no motor waiting; instead there was mother with a telegram in her hand saying that Auntie May couldn't come for them till four o'clock.
What a disappointment! A whole hour longer to wait! What were they to do with themselves?
Mother suggested that they should sit down quietly and read, but who can possibly sit and read when a big motor is coming soon to fetch them?
So mother very kindly said they might go out in the garden.
"Only remember," she said, "you are not to run about and get hot and untidy; and keep on the paths, don't go on the grass."
So out they went, Isabel hugging her precious parcel. She was afraid to leave it in the hall lest mother should see it and guess by the shape what it was, which of course would spoil it all.
They strolled round the garden, peeped at the rabbits and a brood of baby chickens just hatched, then wandered on down the drive.
"Can't we play something?" suggested Isabel—"something quite clean and quiet with no running in it."
Peter thought for some time, then he said: "I don't believe there are any games like that." Being a boy, you see, he couldn't think of one, so he said he didn't think there were any.
Follow-my-leader
"Yes, there are," said Isabel, "heaps of them, only I can't think of one. Oh, I know, follow my leader, walking, not running, and of course not on the grass. I'll be leader."
So off they started, and great fun it was. Isabel led into such queer places—the potting-house, tool-shed, laundry, and even into the dairy once. Then it was Peter's turn, and he went through the chicken-run, stable-yard, and kitchen-garden, and then down the drive.
When he got to the gate he hesitated, then started off down the road.
"Ought we to go down here, do you think?" asked Isabel, plodding along behind him.
"Oh, yes, it's all right," Peter said; "we're keeping off the grass and not running, and that's all mother told us," and on they went.
After walking for a little way, Peter turned off down a side lane, a favourite walk of theirs in summer, and Isabel followed obediently.
Unfortunately, for the last three days it had rained heavily, and the deep cart-ruts on both sides of the road were full of thick, muddy water.
In trying to walk along the top of one of them, Peter's foot slipped, and, before he could prevent it, in it went, right over the top of his nice patent-leather shoe.
Isabel, who was following close behind, intently copying her leader in all his movements, plopped hers in too.
"Goodness, what a mess!" said Peter, surveying his muddy foot. "How awful it looks! I think Ishall make the other one dirty too, then it won't look so bad."
So in went each clean foot.
And then it was, I am sorry to say, that Isabel forgot to be good. You remember I told you that she did sometimes?
She said: "Now that our feet are dirty, let's paddle, they can't look worse, and it's such fun!" And as Peter thought so too, paddle they did, up and down the dirty, muddy cart-ruts.
Presently Peter's white suit and even his clean tie were spotted with mud, and Isabel's beautiful little dress was soaked with muddy water all round the bottom, and, saddest of all, her new sash was dragging behind her in the water, quite spoilt; but they were so excited that they neither of them noticed how they were spoiling their clothes, or that the parcel with the shaving-tidy in it had been dropped and stamped down into the mud.
They were in the middle of the fun when suddenly they heard in the distance the "toot-toot" of a motor-horn, and, looking at each other in dismay, they realised it must be Auntie May come to fetch them.
"We shall have to change first," gasped Isabel, as they hurried along the road. "I'm afraid we look rather messy!"
Peter said nothing; he was feeling too miserable.
It was a sad sight that met nurse's horrified eyes as she hurried anxiously out through the gates in search of them, having hunted the garden in vain; and it was a very shamefaced little pair that hastened by the big motor at the front door and into the hall, where they found mother and Auntie May waiting.
Isabel and Peter really did feel more sorry and ashamed than I can tell you, and, grievous though it be, mother and Auntie May went to tea with grandpapa, but Peter and Isabel went to bed!
BY
The story of a hard heart, a little child, and a kind friend.
It was past nine on a winter's evening. Through the misty gloom a tenor voice rang clear and resonant. The singer stood on the edge of the pavement, guitar in hand, with upturned coat-collar, a wide-brimmed soft hat sheltering his face.
"I'll not leave thee, thou lone one,To pine on the stem:Since the lovely are sleeping,Go sleep thou with them.Thus kindly I scatterThy leaves o'er the bed,Where thy mates of the gardenLie scentless and dead.So soon may I followWhen friendships decay,And from love's shining circleThe gems drop away.When true hearts lie withered,And fond ones are flown,Oh! who would inhabitThis bleak world alone?"
The well-placed voice and accent were those of an educated man. The words of the old song, delivered clearly with true musical feeling, were touched with a thrill of passion.
The thread of the melody was abruptly cut off by a sudden mad clatter of hoofs. A carriage dashed wildly along and swerved round the corner. The singer dropped his instrument and sprang at the horse's bridle. A moment's struggle, and he fell by the curb-stone dazed and shaken, but the runaway was checked and the footman was down at his head, while the coachman tightened his rein.
The singer struggled to his feet. The brougham window was lowered, and a clear-cut feminine face leaned forward.
"Thank you very much," said a cool, level voice, in a tone suitable to the recovery of some fallen trifle.
"Williamson"—to the coachman—"give this man half a crown, and drive on."
While Williamson fumbled in his pocket for the money, the singer gave one glance at the proud, cold face framed by the carriage window, then turned hurriedly away.
"Hey, David!" called the coachman to the groom. "Give her her head and jump up. She'll be all right now. Whoa—whoa, old girl. That chap's gone—half-crowns ain't seemingly in his line. Steady, old girl!" And the carriage disappeared into the night.
The singer picked up his guitar and leant on the railings. He was shaken and faint. Something seemed amiss with his left hand. He laid his forehead against the cool iron and drew a deep breath, muttering—
"It was she! When I heard her cold, cruel voice I thanked God I am as I am. Thank God for my child and a sacred memory——"
"Are you hurt?" asked a friendly voice.
The singer looked up to see a man standing hatless above him on the steps of the house. He strove to reply, but his tongue refused to act; he swayed whilerolling waves of blackness encompassed him. He staggered blindly forward, then sank into darkness—and for him time was not.
When consciousness returned his eyes opened upon a glint of firelight, a shaded lamp on a table by which sat a man with bent head writing. It was a fine head, large and massive, the hair full and crisp. A rugged hand grasped the pen with decision, and there was no hesitation in its rapid movement.
The singer lay for a moment watching the bent head, when it suddenly turned, and a pair of remarkably keen grey eyes met his own.
"Ah, you are better! That's right!" Rising, the writer went to a cupboard against the wall, whence he brought a decanter and glass.
"I am a doctor," he said kindly. "Luckily I was handy, or you might have had a bad fall."
The singer tried to rise.
"Don't move for a few moments," continued the doctor, holding a glass to his lips. "Drink this, and you will soon be all right again."
The singer drank, and after a pause glanced inquiringly at his left hand, which lay bound up at his side.
"Only a sprain," said the doctor, answering his glance. "I saw how it happened. Scant thanks, eh?"
The singer sat up and his eyes flashed.
"I want no Thanks!"
"I wanted no thanks from her," he muttered bitterly.
"How is that?" questioned the doctor. "You knew the lady?"
"Yes, I knew her. The evil she has brought me can never be blotted out by rivers of thanks!"
The doctor's look questioned his sanity.
"I fail to understand," he remarked simply.
"My name is Waldron, Philip Waldron," went on the singer. "You have a right to my name."
"Not connected with Waldron the great financier?" again questioned the doctor.
"His son. There is no reason to hide the truthfrom you. You have been very kind—more than kind. I thank you."
"But I understood Waldron had only one son, and he died some years ago—I attended him."
"Waldron had two sons, Lucien and Philip. I am Philip."
"But——"
"I can well understand your surprise. My father gave me scant thought—his soul was bound up in my elder brother."
"But why this masquerade?"
"It is no masquerade," returned the singer sadly. "I sing to eke out my small salary as clerk in a city firm. My abilities in that way do not command a high figure," he added, with a bitter laugh.
"Then your father——?"
"Sent me adrift because I refused to marry that woman whose carriage I stopped to-night."
The doctor made an expression of surprise.
"Yes, it seems strange I should come across her in that fashion, doesn't it? The sight of her has touched old sores."
Philip Waldron's eyes gleamed as he fixed them on the doctor's face.
"I will tell you something of my story—if you wish it."
"Say on."
"As a young man at home I was greatly under my father's influence. Perhaps because of his indifference I was the more anxious to please him. At all events, urged by him, but with secret reluctance, I proposed and was accepted by that lady whose carriage I stopped to-night. She was rich, beautiful, but I did not love her. I know my conduct was weak, it was ignoble—but I did her no wrong. For me she had not one spark of affection. My prospective wealth was the bait."
Waldron paused, and drew his hand across his eyes. "Then—then I met the girl who in the end becamemy wife. That she was poor was an insurmountable barrier in my father's eyes. I sought freedom from my hateful engagement in vain. I need not trouble you with all the story. Suffice it that I left home and married the woman I loved. My father's anger was overwhelming. We were never forgiven. When my brother died I hoped for some sign from my father, but he made none. And now my wife also is dead."
"And you are alone in the world?" asked the doctor, who had followed his story with interest.
Philip Waldron's face lit up with a rarely winning smile.
"No," he said, "I have a little girl." Then the smile faded, as he added, "She is a cripple."
"And have you never appealed to your father?"
Unopened Letters
"While my wife lived—many times. For her sake I threw pride aside, but my letters were always returned unopened."
The doctor sat silent for some time. Then steadfastly regarding the young man, he said—
"My name is Norman. I have known and attended your father now for a good many years. I was at your brother's death-bed. I never heard him mention a second son."
Philip sighed. "No, I suppose not. I am as dead to him now."
"You are indifferent?"
"Pardon me; not indifferent, only hopeless. Had there been any chance for me, it came when my brother died."
"For the sake of your child will you not appeal once more?"
Philip's face softened. "For my child I would do much. Thank God," glancing at his left hand, "my right is uninjured. My city work is safe. Singing is not my profession, you know," he added, with a dreary smile. "I only sing to buy luxuries for my lame little one."
Rising, he held out his hand.
"You have been a true Samaritan, Dr. Norman. I sincerely thank you."
The doctor took the outstretched hand.
"May I help you further?" he asked.
"I don't see well how you can, but I will take the will for the deed."
"But you do not forbid me to try?"
Philip shook his head despondingly. "You may try, certainly. Matters cannot be worse than they are; only you will waste valuable time."
"Let me be judge of that. May I come to see you?"
Philip hesitated; then, when urged, gave his address, but in a manner indicating that he never expected it to be used.
Dr. Norman, however, was a man of his word. A few days after that chance meeting found him toiling up the steep stairs of block C in Dalmatian Buildings, Marylebone, having ascertained below that the Waldrons' rooms were on the top floor.
"There had need be good air when one gets to the surface here," groaned the doctor, when he reached the top, and paused to recover breath before knocking.
Sounds came from within—a light, childish laugh, a patter of talk. In response to his knock, a step accompanied by the tap-tap of a crutch came across the wooden floor. After some hesitation the door was opened by a pale, brown-eyed child of about seven. A holland pinafore reached to her feet, the right side hitched up by the crutch under that arm, on which she leant heavily. Dark, wavy hair fell over her shoulders, framing a pale, oval face, out of which shone a pair of bright, wide-open eyes.
She remained in the doorway looking up at the doctor.
"I SUPPOSE YOU'VE COME ABOUT THE GAS BILL.""I SUPPOSE YOU'VE COME ABOUT THE GAS BILL."
"I suppose you've come about the gas bill," she said at length, with an old-womanish air, "but it's no use. Father is out, and I have only sixpence. It's my own, but you can have it if you promise to take care of it."
"I'm a doctor, and a friend of your father's," replied Norman, with a reassuring smile.
The child at once moved aside.
A Real Live Visitor
"Please come in. I've just been playing with my dolls for visitors, but it will be much nicer to have a real live one."
The room the doctor entered was small, but cheerful; the floor uncarpeted, but clean, and the window framed a patch of sky over the chimney-pots below. A table stood near the window, by it two chairs on which lay two dolls.
"Come to the window," requested the child, tap-tapping over the floor. "Lucretia and Flora, rise at once to greet a stranger," she cried reproachfully to the dolls, lifting them as she spoke.
She stood waiting until Dr. Norman was seated, then drew a chair facing him and sat down. Her keen, intelligent glance searched him over, then dwelt upon his face.
"Are you a good doctor?" she asked.
"Why do you want to know?"
"Because father says doctors are good, and I wondered if you were. You must not mind my dollies being rather rude. It is difficult to teach them manners so high up."
"How so?"
"Well, you see, they have no society but my own, because they have to be in bed before father comes home."
"And do you never go out?"
"Sometimes on Sundays father carries me downstairs, and when we can afford it he hires a cab to take me to the Park. But, you see, we can't always afford it," with a wise shake of the head.
"Poor child!"
"Why do you say 'poor child' in that voice? I'm not a poor child. I got broken—yes—and was badly mended, dad says, but I'm not a 'poor child.' Poor childs have no dolls, and no funny insides like me."
The doctor smiled. "What sort of inside is that?"
"Well, you see, I have no outside little friends, and so my friends live inside me. I make new ones now and then, when the old ones get dull, but I like the old ones best myself."
At that moment a step sounded on the stairs; the child's face lit up with a look which made her beautiful.
"That's father!" she exclaimed, and starting up, hastened as fast as her crutch would permit to the door.
Waldron stooped to kiss tenderly the sweet, welcoming face held up to his, then he grasped Dr. Norman's hand.
"So, doctor, you are true," he said with feeling. "You do not promise and forget."
"I am the slower to promise," returned Dr. Norman. "I have just been making acquaintance with your little maid."
"My little Sophy!"
"Yes, father?"
Waldron passed a caressing hand over the child's head.
"We two want to talk, dear, so you must go into your own little room."
"Yes, father; but I will bid goodbye to this doctor first," she said, with a quaint air, offering Dr. Norman a thin little hand.
As the door closed upon her Waldron remarked rather bitterly, "You see I told the truth."
"My dear fellow," cried the doctor, "I did not doubt you for a moment! I came this afternoon to tell you I have seen your father—he sent for me. He is not well. He seems troubled more than his illness warrants. Can it be that under that callous manner he hides regret for the past?"
Philip sighed.
"You must be ever present to his memory," went on the doctor. "It might be possible to touch his feelings."
"How?"
"Through your child—nay, hear me out. No harm shall come to her; I would not propose it did I believe such a thing possible."
"But it might mean separation. No, doctor, let us struggle along—she at least is happy."
"For the present, yes, but for how long? She will not always remain a child. Have you had a good medical opinion in regard to her lameness?"
"The best I could afford at the time."
"And——?"
"It was unfavourable to trying any remedy; but that was not long after her mother's death."
"May I examine her?"
Waldron's glad eagerness was eloquent of thanks.
When Dr. Norman left those upper rooms there was a light long absent on Philip's face as he drew his lame child within his arms.
Sophy takes a Drive
In a few days the doctor called again at Dalmatian Buildings, and carried Sophy off in his carriage, the child all excitement at the change and novelty.
After a short drive Dr. Norman said, "Now, Sophy, I have a rather serious case on hand, and I am going to leave you for a little at a friend's, and call for you again later. You won't mind?"
"I think not. I shall be better able to tell you after I have been."
The doctor laughed.
"You see," went on Sophy, with a wise nod of her little head, "you can't tell how you will like things until you try them—now, can you?"
"No, certainly not. So you can tell me how you get on as I drive you home."
"Is this your serious case or mine?" asked Sophy anxiously, as the carriage drew up at a large house in a West-End square.
"This is where I hope to leave you," returned the doctor, smiling. "But you must wait until I find if it be convenient for me to do so."
Dr. Norman was shown into the library, where by the fire in an arm-chair sat an old man, one foot supported on a stool before him. His face was drawn and pinched, and his temper none of the sweetest, to judge by the curt response he made to the doctor's greeting.
"You are late this morning," was his sole remark.
"I may be slightly—but you are fast becoming independent of my care."
An unamiable grunt was the old man's reply.
When a few medical questions had been put and answered, Dr. Norman placed himself on the hearthrug, looking down at his patient as he drew on his gloves.
"You are much better," he said cheerfully.
"Oh, you think so, do you? Well, I don't."
"Yes, I think so. I should like to prescribe you change of scene, Mr. Waldron."
"Want to be rid of me, I suppose. Well, I'm not going!"
"Change of thought might do equally well."
"I'm likely to get it, chained here by the leg, ain't I?"
"Well, change of thought comes by association, and is quite available; in fact, at the present moment I have in my carriage a small person who has given me much change of thought this morning."
"I can't see what good your change of thought will do me!" growled Mr. Waldron.
Dr. Norman regarded him speculatively.
"I wonder if you would do me a favour. I have rather a serious case on the other side of the square, will take me about half an hour; might I leave my small friend here for that time?"
"What! in this room?"
"Why not?"
"Nonsense! You don't mean to bring a child in here!"
"Again I say, why not? She will amuse and interest you."
"Well, of all the——"
"Don't excite yourself, Mr. Waldron. You know how bad that is for you."
"You are giving me some change of thought with a vengeance, doctor! Why should you bring a nasty brat to disturb me?"
Some Amusement
"I only offered you some amusement——"
"Amusement be hanged! You know I hate children."
"I know you say so."
Mr. Waldron growled.
"She is not so very small," went on the doctor—"about seven or eight, I think."
"Humph! Young enough to be a nuisance! A girl, eh?"
"Yes."
"Girls are not so bad as boys," he admitted.
"No, so some people think—good-morning." Dr. Norman went towards the door.
"A girl, you say?" growled old Mr. Waldron again.
"Yes; good-morning."
"I say, don't be in such a hurry!"
"I really cannot stay longer at present; goodbye."
Dr. Norman opened the door and stood within it. Old Mr. Waldron fidgeted in his chair, muttering—
"Horrid child! Hate children! Perfect nuisance!"
The doctor partly closed the door.
"I say, have you gone?" cried the old man, glancing round. "Dr. Norman," he called suddenly, "you can bring that brat in if it will be any pleasure to you, and if you find me dead in half an hour my death will lie at your door!"
The doctor at once accepted this grudging concession, and hastening to the carriage, brought Sophy back in his arms.
"What the——" called out old Mr. Waldron when he saw the child. "Is she ill?"
"Oh, no, only lame," replied the doctor, as he placed his burden in a chair opposite to the old man.
"Now, Sophy," he admonished, "you will be a pleasant companion to this gentleman until my return."
Sophy eyed her neighbour doubtfully.
"I'll try to," she replied, and so the doctor left them.
For some time this strangely assorted pair eyed each other in silence. At length Sophy's gaze rested on the old man's foot where it lay in its large slipper on the stool before him.
"I see you are broken too," she said in a sympathetic voice. "It isn't really pleasant to be broken, is it, although we try to pretend we don't care, don't we?"
"No, it isn't exactly pleasant," replied Mr. Waldron, and a half-smile flickered over his face. "How did you get broken?"
"Somebody let me fall, father says, and afterwards I was onlyhalf-mended. It is horrid to be only a half-mended thing—but some people are so stupid, you know."
Mr. Waldron grunted.
"Does it hurt you to speak that you make that funny noise?" asked Sophy curiously.
"I'm an old man, and I do as I like."
"Oh! When I'm an old woman may I do as I like?"
"I suppose so," grudgingly.
"Then I shall be an awfully nice old woman; I shouldn't like to be cross and ugly. I don't like ugly people, and there are so many going about loose. I am always so glad I like my father's face."
"Why?"
"Because I have to see it every, every day. Have you anybody whose face you like?"
"No; I haven't."
"What a pity! I wonder if you like mine—or perhaps you would like father's. It does seem a shame you shouldn't have somebody."
"I do very well without."
"Oh no, I'm sure you don't," replied Sophy with deep concern. "You may do somehow, but you can't do well."
"What's your father like?" asked Mr. Waldron, amused in spite of himself.
"My father's like a song," returned Sophy, as though she had given the subject much reflection.
"A song! How's that?"
"Sometimes he is gay—full of jokes and laughter, sometimes he is sad, and I cry softly to myself in bed; but he is always beautiful, you know—like a song."
"And your mother?"
"It is Lonely Sometimes"
"I haven't got a mother," replied Sophy sadly. "That's where I'm only half like other little girls. My mother was frightened, and so was the little brother who was coming to play with me. They were both frightened, and so they ran away back again to God. I wish they had stayed—it is lonely sometimes."
"But you have your father."
"Yes, only father is away all day, and I sit such a lot at our window."
"But you have no pain, have you?" Mr. Waldron questioned with interest.
"No," answered Sophy, sighing faintly. "Only a pain in my little mind."
"Ah! my pain is in my toe, and I expect hurts a deal more than yours. What's your father about that he leaves you alone and doesn't have you seen to, eh?"
Sophy's face blazed. "How dare you speak in that voice of my father!" she cried. "He is the kindest and best, and works for me until he is quite thin and pale. Do you work for anybody? I don't think you do," she added scornfully, "you look too fat!"
"You haven't much respect for grey hairs, young lady."
"Grey hairs, why?" asked Sophy, still ruffled.
Mr. Waldron took refuge in platitudes.
"I have always been taught that the young should respect age, of which grey hair is an emblem."
"How funny!" said Sophy, leaning forward to look more closely at her companion. "To think of so much meaning in those tufts behind your ears! I always thought what was inside mattered—not the outside. How much silly people must long to have grey hairs, that they may be respected. I must ask father if that is true."
"I suppose you respect your father?" said Mr. Waldron severely.
"Oh, no," replied Sophy. "I onlylovehim. I think the feeling I have for the gas man must be respect. Yes, I think it must be, there is something so disagreeable about it."
"Why?"
"Well, you see, he so often comes when father is out and asks for money, just as if money grew on our floor, then he looks at me and goes away grumbling. I think it must be respect I feel when I see his back going downstairs."
Mr. Waldron laughed. "You are a queer little girl!" he said.
"Yes, I suppose I am," answered Sophy resignedly. "Only I hope I'm not unpleasant."
When Dr. Norman returned he found the child and his patient on the best of terms. After placing Sophy in the carriage, he came back at Mr. Waldron's request for a few words.
"That's a funny child," began the old man, glancing up at the doctor. "She actually made me laugh! What are you going to do with her?"
"Take her home."
"Humph! I suppose I couldn't—couldn't——?"
"What?"
"Buy her?"
"Good gracious, Mr. Waldron! We are in the twentieth century!"
"Pity, isn't it! But there are many ways of buyingwithout paying cash. See what you can do. She amuses me. I'll come down handsomely for her."
"Well, you must let me think it over," replied the doctor in his most serious manner, but he smiled as he shut the library door.
An evening shortly afterwards Dr. Norman again called on old Mr. Waldron. He found his patient much better, and seated at his writing-table, from which he glanced up quite briskly to inquire—
"Well, have you brought our queer little friend again?"
"Not this time, but I have come to know if you will help me."
"Got some interesting boy up your sleeve this time, have you?"
"No, only the same girl. I want to cure her lameness."
"Is that possible?"
"I believe quite possible, but it will mean an operation and probably a slow recovery."
"You don't want me to operate, I suppose?"
The doctor smiled. "Only as friend and helper. I will do the deed myself."
Old Mr. Waldron growled. "Flaunting your good deeds to draw this badger, eh? Well, where do I come in?"
Dr. Norman's Proposal
"Let me bring the child here. Let her be cared for under your roof. Her father is poor—he cannot afford nurses and the paraphernalia of a sick-room."
"So I am to turn my house into a hospital for the sick brat of nobody knows who—a likely tale! Why, I haven't even heard the father's name!"
"He is my friend, let that suffice."
"It doesn't suffice!" roared the old man, working himself into a rage. "I call it pretty cool that you should come here and foist your charity brats on me!"
Dr. Norman took up his hat.
"You requested me to see if the father would allow you to adopt the child——"
"Adopt; did I say adopt?"
"No; you used a stronger term—'buy,' I think it was."
Old Mr. Waldron grunted. "I said nothing about nurses and carving up legs."
"No, these are only incidents by the way. Well, good-evening." Dr. Norman opened the door.
"Why are you in such haste?" demanded Mr. Waldron.
"I have people waiting for me," returned the doctor curtly. "I am only wasting time here. Good-night."
He went outside, but ere his hand left the door a call from within reached him.
"Come back, you old touch-flint!" cried Mr. Waldron. "You are trying to force my hand—I know you! Well, I'll yield. Let that uncommonly queer child come here; only remember I am to have no trouble, no annoyance. Make your own arrangements—but don't bother me!"
So it came to pass that little Sophy Waldron was received into her grandfather's house all unknowing that it was her grandfather's.
He saw her for a few moments on the day of her arrival.
"I hear you are going to be made strong and well," was the old man's greeting.
"Yes," returned Sophy, with a wise look. "They are going to try and mend me straight. I hope they won't make a mistake this time. Mistakes are so vexatious."
"When you are well would you like to live with me? I want a little girl about the house."
"What for? You have lots and lots of people to do things for you."
Mr. Waldron sighed. "I would like somebody to do things without being paid for their work."
"Oh, I understand," replied Sophy. "Well, I'll see how my leg turns out, and if father thinks you a nice old man—of course it will all depend on father."
"Confound it! I forgot the father!"
"You mustn't say naughty words, Mr. Sir," remonstrated Sophy, shaking a forefinger at him. "And you mustn't speak horrid of my father; I love him."
"Could you Love me?"
Old Mr. Waldron regarded her wistfully. "Do you think you could love me, Sophy?"
The child eyed him critically.
"I like you in bits," she replied. "But perhaps the good bits may spread, then I should like you very much."
Just then the doctor came to take her to the room prepared, where a pleasant-faced nurse was in waiting.
Some hours afterwards, when Dr. Norman's task was done, and poor little Sophy lay white but peaceful on her bed, she looked up at the nurse, saying with a whimsical smile—
"I should like to see the grumpy man."
"And so you shall, my dear," was the nurse's hasty assurance. "Whoever can that be?" she muttered under her breath.
"Why, the grumpy man downstairs," reiterated Sophy.
"Would it be right?" questioned her father, who knelt by the bed, holding a small hand clasped firmly in his own.
"I'll see what the doctor says," replied the nurse, retiring into the adjoining room.
She speedily returned to say that Dr. Norman would go down himself to bring up old Mr. Waldron.
Sophy turned a pale face contentedly to her father.
"Dear dadums," she whispered, "now you will see my friend. He is not such a bad old man, though he does grunt sometimes."
For answer Philip Waldron bowed his head upon the hand he held, and waited.
Soon steps and voices were heard outside.
"Is this the room? A terrible way up! Why didn't you put her a floor lower? Quieter?—oh, well, have your own way!"
The doctor and Mr. Waldron entered. In the half-light of the room the little figure on the bed was dimly visible. Both men paused while the doctor laid a professional hand on the child's pulse.
"She is all right," he remarked reassuringly.
"So you wanted to see me," began Mr. Waldron, looking down at the small head where it lay on the pillow. "How pale she is!" he ejaculated to himself. "I hope they have treated her properly!"
"Quite properly, thank you," replied Sophy, answering his half-whisper. "I wanted you to see my daddy."
Mr. Waldron noticed for the first time the bowed head on the other side of the bed.
"Yes," continued Sophy, following his glance. "This is my daddy, and he wants to help me say 'Thank you.' For Dr. Norman has told me how kind you are, if you are sometimes grumpy."
Philip Waldron slowly raised his head and stood up, facing his father across the bed.
"Philip!"
"Yes, sir."
"Is it possible?"
"I did not intend you should find me here," said Philip, his voice hoarse with emotion, "but it was her wish to see you; and I—I can go away."
He moved as if to leave the room.
"Stay!" came a peremptory command. "I—I have forgiven you long ago, my son; only pride and self-will stood in the way. For her sake, Philip!"
And the old man stretched a trembling hand across the child.