“Swot told me that you wished to see me, Miss Durant,” he said. “Yes, and I’m very much obliged to you for waiting. I—How soon will it be possible for him to be up?” “He is doing so famously that we’ll have him out of bed by Monday, I hope.” “I promised him a present, and I want to have a Christmas tree for him, if he can come to it.” “Wot’s dat?” came the quick question from the bed. “If you don’t know, I’m going to let it be a surprise to you, Swot. Do you think he will be well enough to come to my house? Of course I’ll send my carriage.” “If he continues to improve, he certainly will be.” “Say, is dat de ting dey has for de mugs wot goes to Sunday-school, an’ dat dey has a party for?” “Yes, only this tree will be only for you, Swot,” “Youse oin’t goin’ to have no udder swipes but me?” “No.” “Den who’ll git all de presents wot’s on de tree?” inquired Swot, suggestively. “Guess!” laughed Constance. “Will dey all be for me?” “Yes.” “Hully gee! But dat’s grand! Ise in it up to de limit, doc, oin’t Ise?” exclaimed the waif, turning to the doctor. Dr. Armstrong smiled and nodded his head, but something in his face or manner seemed to give a change to the boy’s thoughts, for, after eyeing him intently, he said to Constance,— “Oin’t youse goin’ to invite de doc?” Miss Durant coloured as she said, with a touch of eagerness yet shyness, “Dr. Armstrong, I intended to ask you, and it will give me a great deal of pleasure if you will come to Swot’s and my festival.” And when the doctor seemed to hesitate, she added, “Please!” in a way that would have very much surprised any man of her own circle. “Thank you, Miss Durant; I’ll gladly come, if you are sure I sha’n’t be an interloper.” “Not at all,” responded the girl. “On the contrary, it would be sadly incomplete without you—” “Say,” broke in the youngster, “growed-up folks don’t git tings off de tree, does dey?” Both Constance and the doctor laughed at the obvious fear in the boy’s mind. “No, Swot,” the man replied; “and I’ve had my Christmas gift from Miss Durant already.” “Wot wuz dat?” “Ask her,” replied Dr. Armstrong, as he walked away. “Wot have youse guv ’im?” Constance laughed, and blushed still more deeply, as, after a slight pause, she replied, “It’s my turn, Swot, to say ‘rubber’?” This said, she stooped impulsively and kissed the boy’s forehead. “You are a dear, Swot,” she asserted, warmly. With the mooting of the Christmas tree, the interest in Old Sleuth markedly declined, being succeeded by innumerable surmises of the rapidly convalescing boy as to the probable nature and number of the gifts it would bear. In this he was not discouraged by Miss Durant, who, once the readings were discontinued, brought a bit of fancy-work for occupation. “Wot’s dat?” he inquired, the first time she produced it. “A case for handkerchiefs.” “For me?” “Did you ever have a handkerchief?” “Nop. An’ I’d radder have suttin’ else.” “Can you keep a secret, Swot?” “Bet youse life.”