He stepped out briskly, in spite
of his sixty-eight years; he even hummed a little tune.
When he reached the house on the avenue he found his secretary still at
work.
"Oh, by the way, Mr. Mathews," he said, "did you send that letter to
the woman, saying I never paid attention to personal appeals? No? Then
write her, please, enclosing my check for two hundred dollars, and wish
her a very Merry Christmas in my name, will you? And hereafter will you
always let me see such letters as that one--of course after careful
investigation? I fancy perhaps I may have been too rigid in the past."
"Certainly, sir," answered the bewildered secretary. He began fumbling
excitedly for his note-book.
"I found the little dog," continued the philanthropist. "You will be
glad to know that."
"You have found him?" cried the secretary. "Have you got him back, Mr.
Carter? Where was he?"
"He was--detained--on Oak Street, I believe," said the philanthropist.
"No, I have not got him back yet. I have left him with a young boy till
after the holidays."
He settled himself to his papers, for philanthropists must toil even on
the twenty-fourth of December, but the secretary shook his head in a
daze. "I wonder what's happened?" he said to himself.
XXV. THE FIRST CHRISTMAS-TREE
BY LUCY WHEELOCK
Two little children were sitting by the fire one cold winter's night.
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