Turning into Fifth Avenue, Isabel started off at a brisk pace, and was soon making good time up the steep grade which lies between Thirtieth and Fortieth Streets. The avenue was crowded with vehicles of every sort, from the elegantly appointed equipages of the wealthy, with their prancing, beautiful horses, to the humble hawkers’ carts, yet all seemed imbued with the Christmas cheer. As she neared Thirty-third Street, an express wagon drove away from the Waldorf, the man had come running from the hotel to spring upon his wagon and whip up his horse with the lack of common sense so often displayed. It is a pity that such people cannot be placed between the shafts for a short time. The experience would prove a wholesome one, I fancy, and give them a practical demonstration of the impossibility of moving heavy weights suddenly without endangering some organ of the body. The horse sprang forward, slipped, nearly fell, and was brought to a realizing sense of his duty by another jerk and a lash. Then, with a mighty effort, he started quickly up the hill with his heavily laden wagon, his poor, smooth-shod feet slipping over the icy pavement in a manner which threatened every moment to bring him down. It had all happened in less time than it has taken to tell it, but love has keen sight, and with a cry of “Nick! Oh, dear Old Nick!” Isabel forgetful of everybody and everything, started up the avenue like a deer. She had not far to run, for at Thirty-sixth Street the climax was reached and Nick fell. As she reached him a crowd had surrounded the prone horse. One man sat calmly on the animal’s head, another was unhooking the traces, another the tug-straps, while the driver was indulging in language not set down in the Ten Commandments. The poor horse, utterly exhausted by his double exertions, lay as still as though the hard, icy pavement were a blissful spot. Just as the last strap was released and the men stepped aside, Isabel came to him, and crying out, “Nick! Dear, dear Nick!” went close to the edge of the curb and stretched out her hands toward him. God had not given him human speech, but if ever a dumb beast spoke Old Nick did then; for at the sound of the beloved voice the poor head was raised quickly, and as joyous a neigh as ever greeted friend rang out upon the frosty air. As Isabel spoke the driver approached her, and touching his cap respectfully, said: “Do you know that horse, miss?” Isabel looked quickly up, and her heart gave a joyous bound as she said: “Yes, oh, yes! But please, please don’t harness him to that dreadful wagon again. He was mine once, and I want to buy him back.” “Buy him back?” incredulously. “Yes, yes. I truly do! Where can I talk to you?” “Will you step into this store, miss, and I’ll see what I can do for you.” “Thank you so much. But let me touch Nick first.”