“There,” said Allan, as he drove the last nail, “that’s solid, I think,” and he set the tree up in the corner. “Now, what next?” “All these things has got t’ have little ribbons tied to ’em,” said Mrs. Welsh, who had been getting out the candy, fruits, and presents. “But I kin do that. You set down an’ read your book.” “Indeed I won’t!” protested the boy. “I want to feel that I’ve had something to do with this tree,” and he drew a chair up to the table. “Somethin’ t’ do with it!” retorted Mary. “You’ve had everything t’ do with it, I’m a-thinkin’. It’s your Christmas tree, Allan, an’ mighty nice of you to think of it, my boy.” “Oh, I wanted Mamie to have one,” he protested; “especially when it was so little trouble to get. Now it’s ready for the pop-corn.” Mrs. Welsh began to drape the white festoons about the tree. Suddenly she paused and looked up with startled eyes. “What was that?” she asked. Allan listened with strained attention, but heard only the dashing of the rain and whistling of the wind. “It sounded like the trampin’ of men,” she said, after a moment. “Perhaps it wasn’t anything. Yes! There it is ag’in!” She sprang to the door and threw it open with frenzied haste. Up the path she saw dimly four men advancing, staggering under a burden. Her love told her what the burden was. “It’s Jack!” she screamed. “It’s Jack! My God! They’ve killed him!” and, forgetting the storm, she sprang down the path toward them. “Is he dead?” she demanded. “Tell me quick—is he dead?” It was Jack’s hearty voice that answered her. “Not by a good deal, Mary! It’ll take more’n a twisted ankle t’ kill Jack Welsh!” She threw her arms about him, sobbing wildly in her great relief, the men standing by, awkwardly supporting him. “But there! Here I am keepin’ you out in th’ wet! Bring him in, men,” and she ran on before, radiant with happiness. This misfortune was so much less than she had feared, that it seemed almost not to be a misfortune at all. “It’s only a sprained ankle, Allan,” she cried to the boy, and ran on past him to get a chair ready. The men settled the foreman down into the chair cautiously. “Shall I git th’ doctor?” asked one. Jack laughed. “Th’ doctor, indade!” he said. “Mary’ll fix this all right in no time. It ain’t bad. But I’m much obliged to ye, boys.” The men took themselves back to work, happier, somehow, for having witnessed the little scene on the pathway. But when the boot was cut away from the swollen ankle, it was evident that its owner would not go about on it again for many days to come. It was bathed and rubbed with liniment and tightly bandaged by the wife’s deft fingers, and the pain gradually grew less. “I slipped on a rail, y’ see,” explained Jack, when the injured member had been properly cared for. “My foot went down into a frog, an’ then I had t’ fall over and wrench it. I’m sorry it give y’ such a turn, Mary; I ought t’ have sent a man on ahead t’ warn you.” Mary smiled down on him indulgently.