"I must look after that family," mused the doctor. "Bless the young
things! a frolicsome kitten and a little earnest child, full of faith
and love of human kind, can be wonderful factors in the matter of
happiness. Strange how I have gone along missing both and not knowing
what I missed. Let me see. I'll send Hooper to look after grandfather's
'bronicles;' he smiled broadly at the remembrance of the garbled word.
I'd rather not have the little one know that I've a hand in it, and
'twill be good for Hooper to try his hand at that sort of thing. Let
me see if that youngster's letter reached its proper destination." He
stopped and pulled out the packet he carried.
Yes, there it was, signed "Bill." The doctor stood and read the poor
smudgy, mis-spelled little missive over, put it back in his pocket, and
walked thoughtfully on, not knowing that at that very moment he was
passing the writer, who, with his meagre supply of wan-looking violets,
was offering them for sale.
Bill as little knew that the letter over which he had spent much
thought and hard labor was resting in the doctor's pocket, for
he imagined it to be in the hands of a red-nosed, white-haired
individual, with a jolly countenance and a twinkling eye--such a one
as could be seen, more or less realistically represented in shop
windows. A very different looking person, indeed, from this portly,
prosperous-appearing man with the keen eyes, who wore "swagger
clothes, and didn't care nothin' fer poor cusses, or he'd 'a bought
somethin' from a feller." Bill's ire was roused by this kind of person,
so indifferent and absent-minded, as never even to glance at the
violets, nor give a regretful negative, as some nice ladies did.
"Talk about old Santa Claus," muttered Bill, "if he is anybody at all,
he ain't friends to nobody but rich folks; that's what I say. I ain't
never heard from him, an' I guess I ain't never goin' to, what's more."
But, as if to chide his lack of faith, Elinor herself appeared like a
reproving angel at his side. "Bill," she said, standing on tip-toe that
she might see the box-cover in which the violets lay, "Bill, have you
sold lots to-day?"
"No, I ain't," he answered, rather crossly.
"Oh, then, I can spend all these five centses. The doctor picked them
all out of his pocket for me, and told me to buy vi'lets for mamma. So,
I have to. Ten five centses, see. I told mamma I would come right back.
She is watching out of the window for me."
Bill's face took on a little sunshine. Ten bunches! Why, it would
nearly clean out his stock. What luck!
"Say," he said, in a low voice, "'bout that Santa Claus, you know.
Time's gittin' clost."
"Yes," said Elinor, eagerly holding out her hands to receive the
violets.
"I don't believe he comes to poor folks," continued Bill; "mind, I
don't say there ain't no Santa Claus; but I say he ain't no friend o'
folks what lives in Hitchen's court."
"Oh, but he is. Dr. Brewster says so, and he knows everyfing--he
does truly--and he told me to tell you that there was a Santa Claus,
really, really." Bill stared at the ground. "And he said if you put
your letter in the box, Santa Claus will surely get it there, and you
will get an answer. So, now," and she walked off with a little switch
of her skirts, and a decided sort of air, as she would say there was no
further doubt possible.
Bill looked after her. Ten bunches of violets meant a corresponding
amount of faith, and an hour later an empty box lid went home with him.
But the very fact of the emptiness of the box cover meant a fullness
of belief. And Gerty; poor little, rickety Gerty, also received a prop
to her faltering hopes in Bill's words. "They are a Sandy Claus, Gert,
sure as shootin'! A big bug what I knows about says so. Ain't you
glad?"
"Are you goin' to believe in him?" asked Gerty, in an excited whisper.
"Yes, I am," sturdily returned Bill.
"So'm I, then," answered Gerty. "I'm goin' to believe he'll bring me a
doll, and a--a orange, and a--a new frock, and a--a picture book and
candy, and--" her whisper rose shrilly as she became more ambitious,
"and a--a turkey!" The climax was reached.
"Sho!" said Bill, doubtfully, "I don't believe he'll do all that."
"What's the use of believing at all if you don't believe he can do
every bit?" returned Gerty, who did not regard half measures with
favor. "I'm goin' to believe I'll git it all--and more," she added,
with an extra touch of defiance of fate.
Bill looked at her half-admiringly. Such temerity was beyond his mental
stature, although, given a proper field for physical valor, and he'd
show no white feather, as various urchins in the neighborhood could
testify.
"How long is it before Christmas?" asked Gerty. "Three days, ain't it?"
"'Bout that. Say, Gert, we ain't ast fur nothin' fur grandpop in that
letter."
"Why, yes, we did. We ast fur a doctor to cure his bronicles. Don't you
know?"
"So we did. How is he?"
"I don't know, he's kinder yaller yit, an' he can't eat much."
A sharp rap at the door interrupted them, and a smiling young man
entered to to their "Come in."
"Is this--Bill?" he asked.
The boy nodded.
"Your grandfather, he's ill?"
"Hm-hm," returned Bill, looking suspiciously at the visitor's careful
attire.
"Ah, yes." The young man put up an eye-glass and peered around the
dingy rooms, Bill meantime eying him, as much as to say, what business
is it of yours how we look?
"Could I see him?" queried the young man.
"I dunno. See here. What d'yer want? I'll pay yer rent. Yer needn't go
badgerin' gran'pop about it."
The young man stared. "Bless me, my son. I don't want any rent. I'm,"
he smiled, and whimsically took out his card case. "Pardon me for not
properly introducing myself. I am Dr. Hooper, and I have been asked to
call professionally on your grandfather by a friend of his."
"Whew!" Bill gave voice to a low whistle, and glanced at Gerty, who had
taken the card with a funny little air of polite acceptance, and, at a
word from her brother, led the way into a hole of a room, hardly more
than a closet, where an old man lay.
The doctor remained about fifteen or twenty minutes, and when he again
came into the presence of the boy and his sister, he said:
"I think your grandfather will be better under my immediate care, and
I will see that he is removed--if--if you don't object--to a pleasant
room in a pleasant place."
"An 'orspital?" queried Gerty.
The young man nodded.
"Say, look here, he ain't goin' to no 'orspital," objected Bill.
"He is, too," retorted Gerty; then turning to the doctor, "You can take
him." She gave the permission grandly. "I know all about it and Bill
don't. I've seen one."
"My son," said the doctor, addressing Bill, "your sister is a person of
unusual acumen. She--she knows a good thing when she sees it. I give
you my word that the friend of whom I spoke thoroughly approves of your
grandfather's removal."
"And can't we see him?" asked Bill, looking very dubious.
"Bless you, yes, every day, if you want to."
"And will you bring him back for Christmas?" asked Bill again.
The doctor considered. "If it is possible. At least, I can promise you
shall eat your Christmas dinner together."
The two children exchanged glances. The answer implied that there was
to be a Christmas dinner.
"I will come to-morrow morning in my carriage for him," added the
doctor. "That is, if I may."
"Yer hear that, Gert? A kerridge. Ain't we swagger?" and Bill laughed.
He followed the young doctor to the door, and shut it after him as
he went outside. Plucking him by the sleeve, he asked in a low tone,
"Mister doctor, that there friend what sent you. Say, honest now, tell
a fellow square. Was it old Sandy Claus?"
The doctor hesitated, looked down at the earnest, ugly little face,
lighted up by a strong hope, its dirt and unhealthy color but dimly
descried in the flaring light of the dingy court, and he felt a new
concern for this "gutter-snipe" with whom he had suddenly come in
contact. He laughed softly and said, "Yes; you're about right. Call him
Santa Claus."
Bill went in and shut the door very solemnly. Things were happening
mysteriously, and he felt somewhat awed at what his experiences
implied.
[Illustration]