“Come in,” said the woman, heartily, throwing the door open.  “Bill will be glad to see you, sir.”

The philanthropist stepped inside.

The room was decently furnished and clean.  There was a sewing machine in the corner, and in both the windows hung wreaths of holly.  Between the windows was a cleared space, where evidently the tree, when decorated, was to stand.

“Are all the things here?” eagerly demanded the tree-bearer.

“They’re all here, Jimmy,” answered Mrs. Bailey.  “The candy just came.”

“Say,” cried the boy, pulling off his red flannel mittens to blow on his fingers, “won’t it be great?  But now Bill’s got to see Santa Claus.  I’ll just go in and tell him, an’ then, when I holler, mister, you come on, and pretend you’re Santa Claus.”  And with incredible celerity the boy opened the door at the opposite end of the room and disappeared.

“Madam,” said Mr. Carter, in considerable embarrassment, “I must say one word.  I am Mr. Carter, Mr. Allan Carter.  You may have heard my name?”

She shook her head.  “No, sir.”

“I live not far from here on the avenue.  Three weeks ago I lost a little dog that I valued very much I have had all the city searched since then, in vain.  To-day I met the boy who has just left us.  He informed me that three weeks ago he found a dog, which is at present in the possession of your son.  I wonder—­is it not just possible that this dog may be mine?”

Mrs. Bailey smiled.  “I guess not, Mr. Carter.  The dog Jimmy found hadn’t come off the avenue—­not from the look of him.  You know there’s hundreds and hundreds of dogs without homes, sir.  But I will say for this one, he has a kind of a way with him.”

“Hark!” said Mr. Carter.

There was a rustling and a snuffing at the door at the far end of the room, a quick scratching of feet.  Then: 

“Woof! woof! woof!” sharp and clear came happy impatient little barks.  The philanthropist’s eyes brightened.  “Yes,” he said, “that is the dog.”

“I doubt if it can be, sir,” said Mrs. Bailey, deprecatingly.

“Open the door, please,” commanded the philanthropist, “and let us see.”  Mrs. Bailey complied.  There was a quick jump, a tumbling rush, and Skiddles, the lost Skiddles, was in the philanthropist’s arms.  Mrs. Bailey shut the door with a troubled face.

“I see it’s your dog, sir,” she said, “but I hope you won’t be thinking that Jimmy or I—­”

“Madam,” interrupted Mr. Carter, “I could not be so foolish.  On the contrary, I owe you a thousand thanks.”

Mrs. Bailey looked more cheerful.  “Poor little Billy!” she said.  “It’ll come hard on him, losing Pete just at Christmas time.  But the boys are so good to him, I dare say he’ll forget it.”

“Who are these boys?” inquired the philanthropist.  “Isn’t their action—­somewhat unusual?”

“It’s Miss Gray’s club at the settlement, sir,” explained Mrs. Bailey.  “Every Christmas they do this for somebody.  It’s not charity; Billy and I don’t need charity, or take it.  It’s just friendliness.  They’re good boys.”