To make up for lost time Jerry hurried early to his work the next morning. He had finished his duties at the convent, and was on his way to the wharf when he met Mr. Morton, who stopped to shake hands and inquire how Peggy had stood the fright. Naturally they talked over the night's adventure.

Mr. Morton had several items of news, for the nurse had been arrested, and had made a full confession. If successful, the robbery was to have been the prelude for more in the same neighbourhood. It had been carefully planned by a gang of professional thieves. The pistol-shot had been fired by a confederate not only to inform the burglars that they had been discovered, but to decoy the police from the scene of action so that the thieves could make their escape."They did not count on your big stick, Jerry. Had it not been for you, every man of them would have gotten away."

"Sure they wouldn't, sir. Some of them would have been caught. But them p'lices are curious creeters. Now if I already had as many thieves on my hands as I could well look after, it never would have entered my head to go on a wild-goose chase after others. There's no accountin' for them p'lices' minds, anyway. And as for their bodies—well, did you ever see one that was not that fat that any thief at all couldn't outrun?"

Mr. Morton laughed. "I suppose they get them that way so they will stay where they are put."

"And so they can't run away from the thieves," added Jerry. "Now for all that I'm crooked, being thin, I'm nimble."

"Indeed you are; and furthermore, you have such good judgment that you saved the battle last night."

"I didn't mean that," cried Jerry, in distress and embarrassment. "Nobody could have done any less than I did."

"You mean any more, man. To my dying day I shall never forget what I owe you nor the sound of the whack of that stick. But, see here, Jerry, you are not going to the wharf to-day?"

"Please, sir, I have to."

"No, you don't. You are getting old, and ought not to work so hard. My wife and I have been making inquiries, and we know all about you and your sick wife. How would you like to be janitor in the building where I have my office?"

"I'd like it, sir, if you think I'd suit. Are they needing a new man?"

"I heard only yesterday the present man had given notice, and I promised to be on the lookout for a new one. I think the place would suit you, and you it—it pays a fair salary." And here Mr. Morton named a sum that seemed so large to poor Jerry that his eyes nearly popped out of his head.

"Ah, I never could be worth all that, sir! But what a great thing it would be for Peggy!" And visions of unburnt coal in large lumps and real feather pillows and other luxuries for his suffering wife passed through his mind.

"I am sure you can fill the position admirably, and the salary is not half so large as you deserve. Come along and we will apply without loss of time."

Applying was a mere form, as Mr. Morton's recommendation was enough. The new janitor was engaged, and promised to enter upon his duties as soon as the convent could find a man to take his place.

Before this happened, Jefferson Square experienced a complete upsetting. All the children were summoned to meet in Mrs. Morton's long drawing-room, and came trooping to see what was wanted: the Earlys, the Rickersons, the Bakers, the Longs, the Adamses, the Morton children themselves, and, last of all, Mrs. Outcast with Mimy and the six other little Outcasts trailing behind. You may be sure none of them were late.

The curiosity of the children was roused to its highest pitch. They couldn't imagine what kind of a party it was going to be with chairs in rows like church. And when they were all seated Mrs. Morton looked so serious, that Addy Gravvy whispered to his neighbour, "I know—it's a funeral."

Then Mrs. Morton made them a long speech. She told a story of a worthy old man working from morning till night to provide the barest necessities for his sick wife; she told of that wife's patience, of her cruel accident and suffering, of her devotion to her husband; she repeated the story of the way both of them had risked their lives to save the property of neighbours who barely knew of their existence. Then she drew a picture of twenty-one thoughtless little imps, jibing and jeering the hardworking man who was worth all the rest of the square put together—fathers and mothers included—and by the time she reached this point all twenty-one of the imps, and seven others who were not imps, were boohooing and bellowing in a way that was a caution.

"What are we going to do about it, children?" asked Mrs. Morton.

Each was for making amends in some way, and all blubbered out at once, but one—I think it was Henry Clay—cried louder than the rest:

"Le's go over, and tell 'em how sorry we are, and how we'll never make fun of him again as long as we live."

This sentiment met with enthusiastic approval, and they were all for rushing to the cottage in a body when Mrs. Morton stopped them.

"Wait, children; it would never do to startle the invalid with such a crowd. One of you must first go and ask Mrs. Myer when it will be convenient for her to see us. Who shall it be?"

And strange to say, every chick and child called out the same name right away. Can you guess whose it was?

Little Miss Outcast.

In a short time Mimy returned with the word that Mrs. Myer would love to see the children at any and all times, but they must be sure to come while Jerry was at home, as he would be so pleased.

"An' I didn't tell her a word of what we are going to say," reported Mimy.

The time was discussed, and the following day at noon was selected. Then some highly important arrangements were made; and after every last one had been pledged to secrecy the meeting adjourned.

During the next twenty-four hours Jefferson Square resembled an ant-hill after a big boy has trod on it. Such rushing around and talking in excited groups; such goings out and comings in; such wagons colliding at front doors leaving bulky parcels; such errand boys breathless with carrying huge bundles! The like was never seen before.

Mrs. Myer from her window across the common did not know what to make of it. She thought at first that every one of her rich neighbours must be going to give a party; though after reflection she decided that this could not be, for if all of them were having parties, who would be left to come to them? She was very much at sea.

As the silver tones of the convent bell said it was twelve o'clock, a gay procession formed on the sidewalk in front of the Mortons'. First came the little children, and each carried something: shoes, stockings, socks, flannels—all of the very best quality. Next came the middle-sized ones with blankets, sheets, and real feather pillows. Then the biggest ones with china, glass, earthenware, and all such things. After them followed the nurses, carrying the babies, and each baby had a gold coin clasped tight in its little fat hand. Then the mothers, trying to keep the gang in order, brought dresses, shawls, and warm winter clothes. The children wore their best clothes and their freshest ribbons, and could not keep in place for a single minute.