“And now,” Beasley announced, in stentorian tones, “if the ladies will be so kind as to take the gentlemen's arms, we will proceed to the dining-room and partake of a slight collation.” Thereupon came a slender piping of joy from that part of the room screened from us by the Tree. “Oh, Cousin David Beasley, that was the BEAUTIFULLEST quadrille ever danced in the world! And, please, won't YOU take Mrs. Hunchberg out to supper?” Then into the vision of our paralyzed and dumfounded watchers came the little wagon, pulled by the old colored woman, Bob's wife, in her best, and there, propped upon pillows, lay Hamilton Swift, Junior, his soul shining rapture out of his great eyes, a bright spot of color on each of his thin cheeks. He lifted himself on one elbow, and for an instant something seemed to be wrong with the brace under his chin. Beasley sprang to him and adjusted it tenderly. Then he bowed elaborately toward the mantel-piece. “Mrs. Hunchberg,” he said, “may I have the honor?” And offered his arm. “And I must have MISTER Hunchberg,” chirped Hamilton. “He must walk with me.” “He tells ME,” said Beasley, “he'll be mighty glad to. And there's a plate of bones for Simpledoria.” “You lead the way,” cried the child; “you and Mrs. Hunchberg.” “Are we all in line?” Beasley glanced back over his shoulder. “HOO-ray! Now, let us on. Ho! there!” “BR-R-RA-vo!” applauded Mister Swift. And Beasley, his head thrown back and his chest out, proudly led the way, stepping nobly and in time to the exhilarating measures. Hamilton Swift, Junior, towed by the beaming old mammy, followed in his wagon, his thin little arm uplifted and his fingers curled as if they held a trusted hand. When they reached the door, old Bob rose, turned in after them, and, still fiddling, played the procession and himself down the hall. And so they marched away, and we were left staring into the empty room.... “My soul!” said the “Journal” reporter, gasping. “And he did all THAT--just to please a little sick kid!” “I can't figure it out,” murmured Sim Peck, piteously. “_I_ can,” said the “Journal” reporter. “This story WILL be all over town to-morrow.” He glanced at me, and I nodded. “It'll be all over town,” he continued, “though not in any of the papers--and I don't believe it's going to hurt Dave Beasley's chances any.” Mr. Peck and his companions turned toward the street; they went silently. The young man from the “Journal” overtook them. “Thank you for sending for me,” he said, cordially. “You've given me a treat. I'm FER Beasley!” Dowden put his hand on my shoulder. He had not observed the third figure still remaining. “Well, sir,” he remarked, shaking the snow from his coat, “they were right about one thing: it certainly was mighty low down of Dave not to invite ME--and you, too--to his Christmas party. Let him go to thunder with his old invitations, I'm going in, anyway! Come on. I'm plum froze.”