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“Let’s buy her three shoes!” said Bill, in enthusiasm at their success. But this proposal was rejected. Each of the other boys had a private plan for an extra present to “her” by this time. The sacred six dollars was folded up in a bit of straw paper from the brewery, and the young gentlemen went home to make their toilets, a process they had had no chance to go through, on Christmas eve. After this, there was really no difficulty about their going into the shoe-shop, and none about consummating the purchase,–to the utter astonishment of the dealer. The gold shoes were bought, rolled up in paper, and ready for delivery.

Bill Floyd had meanwhile learned, by inquiry at the chapel, where she lived, though there were doubts whether any of them knew her name. The others rejected his proposals that they should take street cars, and they boldly pushed afoot up to Clinton Avenue, and rang, not without terror, at the door.

Terror did not diminish when black George appeared, whose acquaintance they had made at the tree. But fortunately George did not recognize them in their apparel of elegance. When they asked for the “lady that gave the tree,” he bade them wait a minute, and in less than a minute Alice came running out to meet them. To the boys’ great delight, she was not crying now.

“If you please, ma’am,” said Tom, who had been commissioned as spokesman,–“if you please, them’s our Christmas present to you, ma’am. Them’s gold shoes. And please, ma’am, we’re very sorry there was such a row at the Christmas, ma’am. It was mean, ma’am. Good-by, ma’am.”

Alice’s eyes were opening wider and wider, nor at this moment did she understand. “Gold shoes,” and “row at the Christmas,” stuck by her, however; and she understood there was a present. So, of course, she said the right thing, by accident, and did the right thing, being a lady through and through.

“No, you must not go away. Come in, boys, come in. I did not know you, you know.” As how should she. “Come in and sit down.”

“Can’t ye take off your hat?” said Tom, in an aside to Pat, who had neglected this reverence as he entered. And Tom was thus a little established in his own esteem.

And Alice opened the parcel, and had her presence of mind by this time; and, amazed as she was at the gold shoes, showed no amazement,–nay, even slipped off her own slipper, and showed that the gold shoe fitted, to the delight of Tom, who was trying to explain that the man would change them if they were too small. She found an apple for each boy, thanked and praised each one separately; and the interview would have been perfect, had she not innocently asked Tom what was the matter with his eye. Tom’s eye! Why, it was the black eye John Flagg gave him. I am sorry to say Bill Floyd sniggered; but Pat came to the front this time, and said “a man hurt him.” Then Alice produced some mittens, which had been left, and asked whose those were. But the boys did not know.

“I say, fellars, I’m going down to the writing-school, at the Union,” said Pat, when they got into the street, all of them being in the mood that conceals emotion. “I say, let’s all go.”

To this they agreed.

“I say, I went there last week Monday, with Meg McManus. I say, fellars, it’s real good fun.”

The other fellows, having on the unfamiliar best rig, were well aware that they must not descend to their familiar haunts, and all consented.

To the amazement of the teacher, these three hulking boys allied themselves to the side of order, took their places as they were bidden, turned the public opinion of the class, and made the Botany Bay of the school to be its quietest class that night.

To his amazement the same result followed the next night. And to his greater amazement, the next.

To Alice’s amazement, she received on Twelfth Night a gilt valentine envelope, within which, on heavily ruled paper, were announced these truths:–

MARM,–The mitins wur Nora Killpatrick’s. She lives inn Water street place behind the Lager Brewery.

Yours to command,
WILLIAM FLOYD.
THOMAS MULLIGAN.
PATRICK CREHORE.

The names which they could copy from signs were correctly spelled.

To Pat’s amazement, Tom Mulligan held on at the writing-school all winter. When it ended, he wrote the best hand of any of them.

To my amazement, one evening when I looked in at Longman’s, two years to a day after Alice’s tree, a bright black-eyed young man, who had tied up for me the copy of Masson’s “Milton,” which I had given myself for a Christmas present, said: “You don’t remember me.” I owned innocence.

“My name is Mulligan–Thomas Mulligan. Would you thank Mr. John Flagg, if you meet him, for a Christmas present he gave me two years ago, at Miss Alice MacNeil’s Christmas-tree. It was the best present I ever had, and the only one I ever deserved.”

And I said I would do so.

* * * * *

I told Alice afterward never to think she was going to catch all the fish there were in any school. I told her to whiten the water with ground-bait enough for all, and to thank God if her heavenly fishing were skilful enough to save one.