“Well, my child, you cannot have him; therefore speak no more about it,” replied Mr. Goodman, who felt not a little annoyed at the turn things were taking. “Then, pa, I’ll go to the hospital too, and nurse him there; upon my word I will.” “No, you sha’n’t.” “But I will. O father!” Here the child again burst into sobs, while the crowd looked on in wonder and admiration, and one man whispered: “What a game thing she is!” Three days have gone by since Daisy’s noble triumph, and now, on a soft, luxurious couch in an elegant apartment, lies Flywheel Bob, while by the bedside watches his devoted little nurse. The boy’s reason has just returned, but he can hardly move or speak. “O Bob! don’t die,” said Daisy, taking one of his cold, death-moistened hands in hers. “You sha’n’t work anymore. Don’t, don’t die!” The physician has told her that death is approaching. “Where am I?” inquired Bob in a faint, scarce audible whisper, and turning his hollow, bewildered eyes on the child. “You are here, Bob, in my home, and nobody shall put you out of it; and when you get well, you shall have a long, long holiday.” The boy did not seem to understand; at least, his eyes went roving strangely round the room, and he murmured the word “Pin.” “What do you mean, dear Bob?” asked Daisy. “Pin,” he repeated―― “my lost Pin.” Here the door of the chamber was pushed gently open and Rover thrust his head in. The dog had been thrice ordered out for whining and moaning, and Daisy was about to order him away a fourth time, when Bob looked in the direction of the door. Quick the poodle bounded forward, and as he bounded Flywheel Bob rose up in the bed, and cried in a voice which startled Daisy, it was so loud and thrilling: “O Pin! Pin! Pin!” In another moment his arms were twined round the creature’s neck; then he bowed down his head. Bob spoke not again――Bob never spoke again and when Daisy at length discovered that he was dead, she wept as if her heart would break. * * * * * “Father, I think poor Bob would not have died, if you had let me have him sooner,” said Daisy the evening of the funeral. “Alas! my child, I believe what you say is too true,” replied Mr. Goodman. “But his death has already caused me suffering enough; do let me try and forget it. I promise there shall be no more Flywheel Bobs in my factory.” “Oh! yes, pa; give them plenty of holidays. Why, Rover, I think, is happier than many of those poor people.” Then, patting the dog’s head: “And, pa, I am going now to call Rover Pin; for I am sure that was his old name.” “Perhaps it was, darling,” said Mr. Goodman, fondling with her ringlets. Then, with a smile, he added: “Daisy, do you know both Mr. Fox and my superintendent believe that I am gone mad!” “Mad? Why, pa?”