"My! but I 'm glad I stopped an' watched ye tryin' ter sell poipers. T'ink o' youse a-settin' dere all dis time a-waitin' fur dat boat--an' T'anksgivin', too! An' don't ye worry none. Ma an' Kitty 'll be right glad to see ye. 'T ain't often we can have comp'ny. It's most allers us what's takin' t'ings give ter us--not givin' ourselves." "Oh," replied the man uncertainly. "Is--is that so?" With a distinct shock it had come to the millionaire that he was not merely the disgruntled lover planning a little prank to tease the dearest girl in the world. He was the honored guest of a family who were rejoicing that it was in their power to give a lonely cripple a Thanksgiving dinner. His face grew red at the thought. "Ugh-uh. An', oh, I say, what _is_ yer name, pardner?" went on the boy. "'Course I called ye 'Mike,' but--" "Then suppose you still call me 'Mike,'" retorted the man, nervously wondering if he _could_ play the part. He caught a glimpse of the beaming face of his benefactor--and decided that he _must_ play it. "A' right, den; an' here we be," announced the boy in triumph, stopping before a flight of steps that led to a basement door. With the aid of his crutches the man descended the steps. Behind him came the boy with the chair. At the foot the boy flung wide the door and escorted his guest through a dark, evil-smelling hallway, into a kitchen beyond. "Ma! Kitty! look a-here!" he shouted, leaving the chair, and springing into the room. "I 've bringed home comp'ny ter dinner. Dis is Mike. He was sellin' poipers down ter de dock, an' he lost his boat. I told him ter come on here an' eat wid us. I knowed what was comin', ye see!" "Why, yes, indeed, of course," fluttered a wan-faced little woman, plainly trying not to look surprised. "Sit down, Mr. Mike," she finished, drawing up a chair to the old stove. "Thank you, but I--I--" The man looked about for a means of escape. In the doorway stood the boy with the wheel chair. "Here, Mr. Mike, mebbe youse wanted dis. Say, Kitty, ain't dis grand?" he ended admiringly, wheeling the chair to the middle of the room. From the corner came the tap of crutches, and the man saw then what he had not seen before; a slip of a girl, perhaps twelve years old, with a helpless little foot hanging limp below the skirt-hem. "Oh, oh!" she breathed, her eyes aflame with excitement. "It is--it is--a _wheel_ one! Oh, sir, how glad and proud you must be--with that!" The man sat down, though not in the wheel chair. He dropped a little helplessly into the one his hostess had brought forward. "Perhaps you--you'd like to try it," he managed to stammer. "Oh, can I? Thank you!" breathed a rapturous voice. And there, for the next five minutes, sat the Millionaire watching a slip of a girl wheeling herself back and forth in his chair--his chair, which he had never before suspected of being "fine" or "wonderful" or "grand"--as the girl declared it to be.