“I see,” said the philanthropist.  He was still wondering about it, though, when the door opened again, and Jimmy thrust out a face shining with anticipation.

“All ready, mister!” he said.  “Bill’s waitin’ for you!”

“Jimmy,” began Mrs. Bailey, about to explain, “the gentleman—­”

But the philanthropist held up his hand, interrupting her.  “You’ll let me see your son, Mrs. Bailey?” he asked, gently.

“Why, certainly, sir.”

Mr. Carter put Skiddles down and walked slowly into the inner room.  The bed stood with its side toward him.  On it lay a small boy of seven, rigid of body, but with his arms free and his face lighted with joy.  “Hello, Santa Claus!” he piped, in a voice shrill with excitement.

“Hello, Bill!” answered the philanthropist, sedately.

The boy turned his eyes on Jimmy.

“He knows my name,” he said, with glee.

“He knows everybody’s name,” said Jimmy.  “Now you tell him what you want, Bill, and he’ll bring it to-morrow.

“How would you like,” said the philanthropist, reflectively, “an—­an—­” he hesitated, it seemed so incongruous with that stiff figure on the bed—­“an airgun?”

“I guess yes,” said Bill, happily.

“And a train of cars,” broke in the impatient Jimmy, “that goes like sixty when you wind her?”

“Hi!” said Bill.

The philanthropist solemnly made notes of this.

“How about,” he remarked, inquiringly, “a tree?”

“Honest? “said Bill.

“I think it can be managed,” said Santa Claus.  He advanced to the bedside.

“I’m glad to have seen you, Bill.  You know how busy I am, but I hope—­I hope to see you again.”

“Not till next year, of course, " warned Jimmy.

“Not till then, of course,” assented Santa Claus.  “And now, good-bye.”

“You forgot to ask him if he’d been a good boy,” suggested Jimmy.

“I have,” said Bill.  “I’ve been fine.  You ask mother.”

“She gives you—­she gives you both a high character,” said Santa Claus. 
“Good-bye again,” and so saying he withdrew.  Skiddles followed him out. 
The philanthropist closed the door of the bedroom, and then turned to
Mrs. Bailey.

She was regarding him with awestruck eyes.

“Oh, sir,” she said, “I know now who you are—­the Mr. Carter that gives so much away to people!”

The philanthropist nodded, deprecatingly.

“Just so, Mrs. Bailey,” he said.  “And there is one gift—­or loan rather—­which I should like to make to you.  I should like to leave the little dog with you till after the holidays.  I’m afraid I’ll have to claim him then; but if you’ll keep him till after Christmas—­and let me find, perhaps, another dog for Billy—­I shall be much obliged.”

Again the door of the bedroom opened, and Jimmy emerged quietly.

“Bill wants the pup,” he explained.