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.