He stood upon a corner uncertainly.  One way led to the park, and this he usually took; but to-day he did not want to go to the park—­it was too reminiscent of Skiddles.  He looked the other way.  Down there, if one went far enough, lay “slums,” and Mr. Carter hated the sight of slums; they always made him miserable and discontented.  With all his money and his philanthropy, was there still necessity for such misery in the world?  Worse still came the intrusive question at times:  Had all his money anything to do with the creation of this misery?  He owned no tenements; he paid good wages in every factory; he had given sums such as few men have given in the history of philanthropy.  Still—­there were the slums.  However, the worst slums lay some distance off, and he finally turned his back on the park and walked on.

It was the day before Christmas.  You saw it in people’s faces; you saw it in the holly wreaths that hung in windows; you saw it, even as you passed the splendid, forbidding houses on the avenue, in the green that here and there banked massive doors; but most of all, you saw it in the shops.  Up here the shops were smallish, and chiefly of the provision variety, so there was no bewildering display of gifts; but there were Christmas-trees everywhere, of all sizes.  It was astonishing how many people in that neighbourhood seemed to favour the old-fashioned idea of a tree.

Mr. Carter looked at them with his irritation softening.  If they made him feel a trifle more lonely, they allowed him to feel also a trifle less responsible—­for, after all, it was a fairly happy world.

At this moment he perceived a curious phenomenon a short distance before him—­another Christmas-tree, but one which moved, apparently of its own volition, along the sidewalk.  As Mr. Carter overtook it, he saw that it was borne, or dragged, rather by a small boy who wore a bright red flannel cap and mittens of the same peculiar material.  As Mr. Carter looked down at him, he looked up at Mr. Carter, and spoke cheerfully: 

“Goin’ my way, mister?”

“Why,” said the philanthropist, somewhat taken back, “I was!”

“Mind draggin’ this a little way?” asked the boy, confidently, “my hands is cold.”

“Won’t you enjoy it more if you manage to take it home by yourself? "

“Oh, it ain’t for me!” said the boy.

“Your employer,” said the philanthropist, severely, “is certainly careless if he allows his trees to be delivered in this fashion.”

“I ain’t deliverin’ it, either,” said the boy.  “This is Bill’s tree.”

“Who is Bill?”

“He’s a feller with a back that’s no good.”

“Is he your brother?”

“No.  Take the tree a little way, will you, while I warm myself?”

The philanthropist accepted the burden—­he did not know why.  The boy, released, ran forward, jumped up and down, slapped his red flannel mittens on his legs, and then ran back again.  After repeating these manoeuvres two or three times, he returned to where the old gentleman stood holding the tree.