The pure, sweet voice of Doodles carried the song on and on without touch of weariness. He was never lonely when he could sing, and now that Caruso was not there he often sung the hours away. The Flatiron was familiar with the singing of Doodles. All up and down the long halls busy mothers and tired toilers would open their doors to the heartening music. They did not stop to ask whether the voice was remarkable or not; it was pleasant to hear, and there was never over-much pleasure in The Flatiron. A few realized that while they were listening they forgot the hard life that bound them, and forgetfulness even for a time was worth while.

Bravely rang the last verse.

The boy stopped suddenly, for an old man was in the doorway. He had removed his hat, and stood panting from his climb of the three flights.

“I’m—sorry—to—inter-rupt—your—beau-tiful—”

“Oh, that isn’t any matter!” Doodles broke in. “Come right and sit down! Take the rocking-chair; it’s easiest.”

“Thank you,” bowed the stranger. “I’m not—used—to stairs.”

“These are pretty steep,” attested Doodles. “They make mother dreadfully out of breath; but Blue runs up as fast, and doesn’t mind ’em at all.”

Before the old man could talk comfortably he let go the query that was impatient on his lips. “Do you know if there’s a girl lives in this building called Moon?” The fine face was pathetic in its eagerness.

“I don’t remember anybody by that name,” answered the boy slowly, thinking hard. Flatiron lodgers were so numerous and so fleeting.

All brightness faded from the wrinkled face, leaving it more weary than before.

“It’s my granddaughter,” the trembling voice explained. “She—went away—she had to, and I don’t blame her a mite!—and she couldn’t tell me where—I do wish she had! A man from our town said he saw her—or thought it was—coming in here one day; but it couldn’t ’a’ been her!” He sighed. “If Horace had just stopped his team, and spoke to her and found out! But you can’t much blame him—she give him the mitten once, and he’s never gotten over it. It’s no wonder the fellows are after her; she’s as pretty as her mother before her. Ye see, she’s my son’s child. Her mother died when she was a little thing, and her father married again. Sarah’s been a good mother to her, only for trying to make a match between her and Zenas; but it’s natural she should think her boy is the whole earth. And he must needs make love to my girl! As for that matter, there ain’t a fellow in town that wouldn’t run his legs off to get one of her smiles. But Zenas Camp! He’s the conceitedest, dudishest numskull I ever set eyes on. Poor child! she couldn’t stand his love-making. So she had to go. She left me a little note, telling me why she couldn’t stay. I wish she’d told me where she was going, but she said she was afraid I’d have to let it out if I knew, and if I didn’t know I couldn’t tell. Now Zenas has up and married the richest old maid in town; so he’s out o’ the way. She could come home well’s not, and I don’t know where to look for her.” He bent his head on his hands.

“I’m sorry,” sympathized Doodles, “I’m awfully sorry! I guess you’ll find her; I feel’s if you would.”

“I’ve got to!” The old frame straightened. “To think of her—innocent little thing!—being in a big city like this, all alone, makes me wild! I must find her! I guess I’m ’bout rested enough to go on. I wish you’d sing me just one piece before I go.”

“I wonder what you’d like best,” Doodles mused.

“That you were singing when I come in is ’s good as any—something about an armour-bearer, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, sir, ‘Only an Armour-Bearer.’ I like that, I s’pose because I’m an only, too.”

“An ‘only’?” The wrinkled forehead had a puzzled scowl.

“Why, yes, sir; I’m only a little boy that can’t walk. I couldn’t even be an armour-bearer, if they had them now—mother says she guesses they don’t. But if they did, I couldn’t march or anything. I like to play I can, though. It’s fine to feel I’m marching with the rest! I can’t really do much, you know, except talk and sing. But mother says some folks can’t even do that, and it isn’t so much what you do as how you do it. I didn’t know that till mother told me. It is queer how much mothers know, isn’t it? My mother knows ’most everything! She’s a great comfort.”

“A mother is the best thing in the whole world, little one.” The faded blue eyes grew a bit misty.

“I think so,” agreed Doodles. “And grandfathers are nice, too. Grandfather Blue was a splendid man, mother says. Blue was named for him, but he don’t like it much. The boys call him ‘Blue Stick’ and ‘Sticky Blue’ and ‘Sticky Doleful’, and sometimes he gets mad. Mother tells him he ought to be proud of such a name, and proud of Stickney, too, even if the boys do turn it into ‘sticky.’”

“Ye can’t hurt a good name that way,” observed the old man. “A name that’s got generations of good folks back of it is the kind that puts ye on your mettle to keep it up to the mark.”

“Why, you talk just like mother!” cried Doodles, his brown eyes shining. “My father was a lovely man, but I didn’t know him. He died when I was a baby. I was named for father and Uncle Jim, Julius James. It’s too bad about Uncle Jim! He was mother’s only brother, and he ran away because grandfather wouldn’t let him keep his violin. You see, he had been saving up money for ever so long to buy a violin with, and then when he got it grandfather made him carry it back to the store—he said it was all nonsense for him to spend his time fiddling. But Uncle Jim was possessed about music—mother says I take after him. I guess grandfather was sorry enough afterwards, for Uncle Jim never came back. Mother hasn’t any idea where he is.”

On the listener’s face the lines deepened. The little story had awakened sad possibilities.

“Suppose, dearie, you sing a bit now,” he suggested. “I must be getting on.”

“Oh, I forgot!” exclaimed Doodles in compunction.

“Only an Armour-Bearer” was succeeded by “Jerusalem, the Golden,” which proved to be one of the visitor’s favorites.

“Mother likes that,” confided Doodles, as he rested from his singing; “it reminds her so of Uncle Jim. Once, when he was a little boy, there was company to stay over night, a minister and his wife named Hall. Before they went to bed they sung some hymns; Grandmother Blue played on the melodeon, and the rest stood around back of her. When they came to that line, ‘They stand, those halls of Zion,’ Jim nudged mother, and pointed to Mr. and Mrs. Hall, and she giggled right out! Nobody noticed it much, they were singing so loud; but she was dreadfully mortified.”

Mr. Moon laughed with Doodles, then, after thanking him for his singing, he arose to his unsteady feet.

“If I don’t find her to-day, I think I’ll have to stay over till to-morrow,” he said quaveringly; “seems’s if I couldn’t go back without my little Dolly!”

“Dolly?” repeated Doodles, his eyes round with wonder. “Dolly, did you say?”

“Why, yes, of course, Dolly!” The voice was sharp with pain and something akin to impatience.

“You never said her name was Dolly!” breathed the boy reproachfully, trying to follow out the sudden possible clue. “But she’s Dolly Rose!” he added, with a little shake of his head.

“Child! child! what are you talking about?”

“Dolly—my Dolly Rose! But she ain’t a Moon! She said her name was Rose—Dorothy Rose.”

“Boy! tell me what you’re driving at! Who’s Dorothy Rose?” The man dropped heavily into the chair he had just quitted.

“Why, she’s a girl,” Doodles explained. “That’s her room,” pointing to the opposite side of the hall. “But she ain’t there now,” he added hastily, for the old man was rising, his face set towards the door indicated.

“Oh!” exclaimed Doodles softly, “she said her grandpa called her Dolly! She did! But her name’s Rose,” he insisted sadly.

“Oh, ’t ain’t likely it’s my Dolly!” was the dreary conclusion. Then a light stole into the clouded eyes. “Her name ain’t Rosetta, is it?”

“No, just Rose,” the boy replied slowly.

“And—” he hesitated, reluctant to let go his forlorn hope, “she ain’t lame, is she?”

“Oh, she is!” piped Doodles excitedly. “Only a little—not enough to hurt her a bit!” even in that significant moment loyal to his friend.

The withered face flushed and whitened. The faded eyes grew bright. “And has she got curly hair?”

“Yes, lovely! And red cheeks!”

“Red as roses! And her eyes are blue—blue as—”

“The sky in the morning, when it’s cold!” Doodles helped out.

“Ye’ve got it exactly! And she’s a slim little thing?”

“My, yes, I guess she is!”

They were two excited children, each eager for one more word of evidence that should make the proof sure.

“She has the dearest dimples!” Doodles cried.

The old man nodded smilingly. “Seem’s if it must be Dolly,” he quavered. “Ther’ wouldn’t be two. Her name’s Dorothy Rosetta, an’ she prob’ly just called it Rose, so Zenas couldn’t find her—that’s what! My little Dolly! And to think how near I came to missing her after all!” His voice tottered along the brink of tears, then something glistened on his coat, and Doodles politely looked out of the window.

“It’s a beautiful day,” he remarked presently, not turning his head. “Dolly will be sure to come home this noon; she always does when it’s pleasant.” As there was no response, he went on. “She found Caruso his name. Caruso’s my bird—my mocking bird, you know. Dolly named him after the real Caruso. And, oh, she went to hear him, with Mr. Gaylord!”

A pleased chuckle made Doodles turn round. “So she’s caught a city beau already!” Grandpa Moon was saying. “She’d never be long without one, she’s that pretty.”

“I guess he’s a beau,” Doodles responded, “he’s lovely anyway. They went to a moving picture show, too. Oh, they looked so nice together! You ought to see ’em! He brought her some beautiful flowers, and she gave me some.”

“Just like her! She’s a generous little thing. Tell me more about her.”

“There isn’t much. She works in the knitting mill. She likes Caruso—my Caruso. I wish he was here to sing for you; but he’s at the bird doctor’s having his wing mended. It hung down dreadfully, and the bird doctor is going to fix it so it’ll be as good as new. Blue went up there last week to see how he’s getting along, and he’s ’most well. He sings ‘Annie Laurie’—just think! Seem’s if I couldn’t wait to hear him sing that!” Doodles gave a vivid account of the bird’s sudden recollection of the tune, drifting into the story of the robbery and Thomas Fitzpatrick’s part in the exciting little affair. The first noon whistle brought him to a halt.

“That’s five minutes of twelve,” he announced. “Our clock is too slow. Dolly’ll be here pretty soon now—in about ten minutes, I guess.”

Talk flagged after that, although Doodles tried to keep up a show of it. It is doubtful whether the old man heard much of what was said; his thin fingers drummed restlessly on the arms of the rocker, and at every sound he glanced towards the doorway.

“We shall hear her coming up,” Doodles told him; “I always do. ’Tisn’t quite time—most though. Mother doesn’t—” he stopped, listening, then nodded gleefully. “Hear her? She’s on the first flight.”

The old man shook his head; his ears were not keen enough to catch that soft footfall. Quickly, however, his face brightened.

“Won’t she be astonished!” the boy whispered.

The girl smiled a gay answer to Doodles’s greeting, and was starting over the threshold when she spied the foot and trousers-leg of a man, and retreated.

“No, no! don’t go!” cried Doodles. “Please come in just a minute, Dolly dear!”

As she advanced, the occupant of the rocking-chair turned toward her. She flashed one glance at that wrinkled face, and darted forward with a glad, “Grandpa! grandpa!”

To Doodles’s surprise he found his cheeks wet with tears, and the others were wiping their eyes. Why people should cry when they were happy he could not understand.

For a time words flew merrily from lip to lip. “To think that Cynthi’ Beadles should marry Zenas Camp!” laughed Dolly. Then she sobered, with a “Poor Cynthi’!”

“You’ll go home with me, this afternoon?” Grandpa Moon queried in a taken-for-granted tone.

The answer came promptly enough, “Of course I’ll go!” Yet she looked wistfully across at Doodles, and thought of somebody else with a tiny anxious scowl and a faint flush.

Shortly the two went off, arm in arm, Dolly eager to show her “cosy little den,” and to make grandpa a cup of tea. They did not return to say good-bye until after Mrs. Stickney and Blue had come and gone. Then the stay was too brief for the satisfaction of Doodles; but the train must be met, and there were several calls to be made first. So with promises to write, the parting was over.

Just before six o’clock, Mr. Gaylord dropped in, as he often did when he had a moment’s leisure. Doodles’s news left him grave.

“She wanted me to tell you she was sorry she couldn’t see you again,” the boy ended.

The young man’s response was to ask, “Where is her home?”

Doodles stared at him unseeingly. He was searching his memory. At last he dragged out his forlorn answer, “I don’t know!”

The other smiled grimly.

“She never told! I’m sure she didn’t!” The boy’s brown eyes brimmed over. “Now I can’t send her a letter!”

“Never mind, little man! She will write to you, and then you’ll know.” Still as he went across the hall to his room—grown suddenly so lonesome—he wondered if the omission could have been intentional. His next thought was to upbraid himself for the doubt.

Yet days multiplied, weeks slipped away, and no word came from Dolly Moon.