"There's two p'ints scored fer th' masculoine moind!" counted off Mr. Hennesy. "An' now,--if besides havin' a feather or a buttherfly in me head, I'd be daubin' me face wid red paint----" "Oh, but we don't do that!" protested the girls in chorus. "Some ladies does," said Mr. Hennesy sententiously. "Thot's three p'ints in favour of the masculoine moind!" * * * * * On the sofa, in the corner of the parlour, Beatrice had found Mr. Schultzsky, looking very pale and tired. "I haf been looking for my nephew," said the old man. "I think we should go home." "Oh, Mr. Lindsay is surrounded by admiring young ladies," answered Beatrice. "It would be a pity to spoil his good time. Beside, you must wait and have a mystery package. They are selling at ten cents each, and every one is warranted." She brought from the kitchen a cup of tea and a slice of cake, and settled the tray cozily on the old man's knees. "They don't seem to need me in the garden, so I shall stay with you," she said. "May I sing for you?" She seated herself at the piano, and hesitated a moment, wondering what style of song the old man might like. "Something old-fashioned, anyhow," she decided, and began in a sweet contralto voice "The Pilgrim." "I'm a pilgrim, and I'm a stranger, I can tarry, I can tarry but a night: To that country where I am going, My Redeemer, my Redeemer is the light. There is no sorrow,--nor any sighing, Nor any tears there,--nor any dying: I'm a pilgrim, and I'm a stranger, I can tarry, I can tarry but a night." There was the sound of a crutch on the floor, and Beatrice was amazed to find Mr. Schultzsky standing at her side, wiping his eyes on his red cotton handkerchief. "My wife wass young like you," he said brokenly, "and she sang the same song. It wass a long time ago. She lifed only three months." "I am sorry, Mr. Schultzsky," was all Beatrice found to say. She thought of the picture of the beautiful lady, hung crooked and high on the wall, opposite the old harness. "Perhaps grief and loneliness have made him what he is," she thought pityingly. "Miss Billy is right. There is a tender side to everybody, if we can only find it." Outside on a platform improvised from an over-turned tub Policeman Canary was selling off the packages with neatness and despatch. Mr. Hennesy disported a pair of ladies' side combs in his hair. Mrs. Hennesy had a mouse-trap. Margaret Van Courtland became the happy possessor of a pound of dried codfish, Francis had a pair of red mittens, three sizes too small. Miss Billy drew a fire shovel, John Thomas got a mouth organ, and Mrs. Canary revelled in a dream book. Theodore was going round with an ornamental and very sticky candy heart that one of the children had contributed, begging every one to accept it,--and finally traded it to Marie Jean Hennesy for a bottle of catsup.