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.”

“This is for Dr. Armstrong.”

Swot regarded it with new interest.  “Youse goin’ to s’prise ’im?”

“Yes.”

“Den youse must sneak it quick w’en he comes in.”

“Haven’t you noticed that he doesn’t come here any longer, Swot?” quietly responded the girl, her head bowed over the work.

“Oin’t dat luck!”

“Why?” asked Constance, looking up in surprise.

“’Cause youse can work on de present,” explained Swot.  “Say,” he demanded after a pause, “if dere’s anyting on de tree dat Ise don’t cares for, can Ise give it to de doc?”

“Certainly.  Or better still, if you’ll find out what he would like, I’ll let you make him a present.”

“Youse payin’ for it?” anxiously questioned the boy.

“Of course.”

“Dat’s Jim Dandy!”

Miss Durant recurred to this offer twice in the succeeding week, but to her surprise, found Swot’s apparent enthusiasm over the gift had entirely cooled, and his one object was a seeming desire to avoid all discussion of it.

“Don’t you want to give him something, or haven’t you found out what he wants?” she was driven to ask.

“Oh, dat’s all right.  Don’t youse tire youself ’bout dat,” was his mysterious reply.  Nor could she extract anything more satisfactory.

It was a very different Swot McGarrigle who was helped into Miss Durant’s carriage by the doctor on Christmas eve from the one who had been lifted out at the hospital some six weeks before.  The wizened face had filled out into roundness, and the long-promised new clothes, donned for the first time in honor of the event, even more transformed him; so changed him, in fact, that Constance hesitated for an instant in her welcome, in doubt if it were he.

“I have the tree in my own room, because I wanted all the fun to ourselves,” she explained, as she led the way upstairs, “and downstairs we should almost certainly be interrupted by callers, or something.  But before you go, Dr. Armstrong, I want you to meet my family, and of course they all want to see Swot.”