Mickey knew that washing, better air, enough food, and oil rubbing were improving Peaches. What he did not know was that adding the interest of her presence to his life, even though it made his work heavier, was showing on him. He actually seemed bigger, stronger, and his face brighter and fuller. He swung down the street thrusting his papers right and left, crossed and went up the other side, watching closely for a customer. It was ten o'clock and opportunities with the men were almost over. Mickey turned to scan the street for anything even suggesting a sale. He saw none and started with his old cry, watching as he went: "I _like_ to sell papers! _Sometimes_ I sell them! Sometimes I _don't_----!" Then he saw her. She was so fresh and joyous. She walked briskly. Even his beloved nurse was not so wonderful. Straight toward her went Mickey. "I _like_ to sell papers! _Sometimes_ I sell them! Sometimes I _don't!_ Morning paper, lady! Sterilized! Deodorized! Vulcanized! Nice _clean_ paper!" The girl's eyes betokened interest; her smiling lips encouraged Mickey. He laid his chin over her arm, leaned his head against it and fell in step with her. "_Sometimes_ I sell them! Sometimes I _don't!_ If I _sell_ them, I'm happy! If I don't, I'm _hungry!_ If you _buy_ them, you're happy! Pa--per?--lady." "Not to-day, thank you," she said. "I'm shopping, so I don't wish to carry it." Mickey saw Peaches' slate vanishing. It was a beautiful slate, small so it would not tire her bits of hands, and its frame was covered with red. His face sobered, his voice changed, taking on unexpected modulations. "Aw lady! I thought _you'd_ buy my paper! Far down the street I saw you _coming_. Lady, I like your gentle _voice_. I like your pleasant _smile!_ You don't want a nice _sterilized_ paper?--lady." The lady stopped short; she lifted Mickey's chin in a firm grip, looking intently into his face. "Just by the merest chance, could your name be Mickey?" she asked. "Sure, lady! Mickey! Michael O'Halloran!" Her smile became even more attractive. "I really don't want to be bothered with a paper," she said; "but I do wish a note delivered. If you'll carry it, I'll pay you the price of half a dozen papers." "Gets the slate!" cried Mickey, bouncing like a rubber boy. "Sure I will! Is it ready, lady?" "One minute!" she said. She stepped to the inside of the walk, opened her purse, wrote a line on a card, slipped it in an envelope, addressed it and handed it to Mickey. "You can read that?" she asked. "I've read worse writing than that," he assured her. "You ought to see the hieroglyphics some of the dimun-studded dames put up!" Mickey took a last glimpse at the laughing face, then wheeling ran. Presently he went into a big building, studied the address board, then entered the elevator and following a corridor reached the number.