On the morning of the blizzard, at that dark hour which comes just before daylight, Dr. Frank Winthrop left his own house for a visit to the hospital. There were no cars running, and he would not think of rousing his coachman, or even his horses, to breast such a storm; for his errand might be a prolonged one, and was, indeed, a case of life or death. At ten o’clock he had left a patient in a most critical condition, and was now returning to further attend the sufferer. His ulster was fastened tightly about him, his head thrust deeply into his collar, his hands in his pockets, and with teeth grimly set he faced the night.

“Two miles, if it’s a block! Well, it’s useless to try and see one’s way. The street lamps, such as are still burning, make an occasional glimmer in the fog of snowflakes and are almost more misleading than none at all. But I’ve walked the route so often, I’ll just trust to my feet to find their own road, and to Providence that I may reach my man in time!”

Robust and determined as the good physician was, he was almost overcome by the cold and the struggle through the unbroken drifts; while his whole person soon became so covered with the flying flakes that he looked like a great snow-man itself, suddenly made alive and set in motion. But the hope of easing pain gave him courage to persevere; and finally he came within a short distance of the great building whose dimly lighted windows made a dull redness through the storm.

“There she is, the blessed old house of comfort! Her wards are like to be full this night. And that was the very hardest walk I ever took. I hope, I pray, it has not been for nothing.”

Just then his foot stumbled against some half-buried obstruction, and stooping, the doctor touched the object with his hands.

“Oh! as I feared! A human being. A child—a boy. Overcome and maybe frozen. Poor little chap, poor little chap!”

Unbuttoning his overcoat the physician struck a match within the shelter of its flap, and by its flare scanned the small face from which he had brushed away the snow. Then he uttered another exclamation of surprise and lifting the little, rigid figure in his arms, folded his great-coat about it and started forward with renewed energy.

“Whatever is a child like this doing down here in this part of town? If it weren’t for his clothes I might think he was a newsboy headed for Newspaper Square, yonder; but newsboys don’t wear velvet attire, or hats with wide brims and drooping feathers, like a girl’s ‘picture’ headgear. Thank God, we’re almost there!”

On such a night, more than ever alert, the attendant at the door of the accident ward opened it wide to the slightest summons of the good doctor, who staggered into the light and warmth, shaking the snow from him in clouds and ordering:

“Promptest attention. Child overcome in the snow. Call nurse Brady. She’ll know.”

The nurse was instantly at hand, and received the new “case” from the attendant; while the physician took off his own snow-covered ulster and brushed the melting flakes from his beard. All the while his keen eyes were studying the child’s countenance and following his motionless figure as, with that haste which is never waste, the trained nurse carried it away toward the great ward where so many other “cases” were receiving the care which should save life.

Finding, by brief question and answer, that the patient he had come especially to see was neither better nor worse, Dr. Winthrop followed nurse Brady and her new charge; watching and directing as it seemed necessary, and finally announcing:

“I’ll have him put in a private room; this ward is so full already, and there’ll be more coming right along. A boy who wears velvet and feathers must belong to some rich family, who’ll gladly pay for every attention. Poor, little, bedraggled bird of paradise!”

So it happened that when Towsley opened his eyes, a few hours later, it was in a room whose comfort quite equalled that of the one from which he had fled, even though its furnishings were much plainer. And over his pillow leaned another woman wearing a snowy cap, far daintier in shape than had adorned Miss Lucy’s gray curls. There were no gleaming glasses shading the kindly eyes which regarded him, and no sternness in the lips that said slowly and gently:

“So my little patient is better. I am so glad of that.”

After a long, silent stare into nurse Brady’s face, Towsley asked:

“Be you? Where’s I at?”

“In a nice warm bed, all safe and sound, with a fine breakfast waiting for you.”

“Where’s it at, I say?”

“The hospital.”

“What for?”

“Because you must have been taking a little walk in the storm and got too tired to go very far. A kind man found you and brought you in here, and now if you’ll please drink this hot soup you’ll feel as fine as a fiddler!”

“Humph. I can fiddle—some, myself. Is the pie all gone? Oh! I mean—I—I—my head’s funny.”

“That will come right enough when you set your empty stomach to work. Afterward you will tell me your name and where you live, and I’ll send for your people. But the soup first.”

Towsley sat up against the nurse’s arm and obediently drank all the broth she offered him, even to the last drop. Then he lay back with a sigh of deep content and fell into a sound, refreshing sleep. When he awoke again the pretty nurse was gone and in her chair sat a gentleman gazing at him with a curious sort of stare, as if Towsley were some new kind of animal in whom the stranger was interested.

The stare nettled Towsley, who felt strangely cross and irritable. He knew he was saucy, but he couldn’t help making a little grimace of disgust and demanding:

“Think you’ll know me next time you see me, governor?”

“I certainly hope so. That’s why I’m studying your face. Hm’m. I see you are decidedly better. Quite all right, in fact. Feeling prime, aren’t you? Ready to run away again?”

“What you mean? How did you know I ran away?”

“By your clothes. A little lad who wears velvet blouses and fine hats had no business away from his home in such a storm as we have had. Now, your people will probably have grieved themselves ill about you, and you’re to tell me your name and address at once, so I can send them word where you are. The storm is over and people are beginning to get about again. The street cars should be running by to-morrow, as usual.”

Towsley regarded the gentleman wistfully for a moment; then cried out, impatiently:

“I’ll bet the fellows got a beat on me!”

“Eh? What?”

“Have the ‘lines’ been tied up? I thought they was goin’ to be, last night.”

“Eh! What? What do you know about ‘lines,’ and ‘beats,’ and such matters?”

“Well, I guess I know as much as the next one,” answered the lad proudly. “Ain’t I been on the ’Xpress since I was so high?” measuring a short space between his thin, and now—thanks to nurse Brady’s attention—very white little hands.

“The dickens you have! Then why were you masquerading in borrowed plumes, my lad? Your story and your clothing don’t agree. What is your name? Give it right, now, mind.”

“Why shouldn’t I? I ain’t ashamed of it, if it isn’t pretty. I’m Towsley. Towsley Towhead, some the Alley folks call me. I’m one the boys on the ’Xpress. That’s who I am, and I can sell more’n any other fellow of my size on the whole force.”

“I believe it. You look as sharp as a razor. But let’s keep to facts. You tacitly admitted that you ran away, and your velvet attire is certainly against you!”

There was something both whimsical and kindly in the doctor’s expression, and Towsley’s confidence was won.

“Don’t you s’pose I know that? Don’t you s’pose I reckoned I was a guy; and that all the fellows would laugh at me when they saw me? But I couldn’t help it, could I? That old black man took my own clothes away and left these, and I couldn’t go out without any, could I? She was a nice old lady and her pie was good. Pretty good, I mean. But she wasn’t going to catch Towsley and adopt him, not if he could help himself! No, siree! So I waited till everybody was asleep, then I lit out.”

“Smart boy! Tell me the whole story; from start to finish.”

“Say, you tell me, first. Was I half dead in the snow? Did you find me and fetch me here, like I heard them say? ’Cause if you did, I—I—I’d like to do something back for you, yourself.”

“Oh! that’s all right, my lad. You’ll have a chance. Don’t fear.”

“What do you mean, sir? What can I do?” asked Towsley eagerly.

“Did you ever hear, as you went along the street, somebody start humming or whistling a tune? any kind of a tune, but a catchy one the best. In a little while you’ll hear another person pick it up and hum or whistle, just the same way; so on, till nobody knows how many have caught and heard the wandering melody and passed it onward through a crowd. Did you ever notice anything like that?”

“Heaps of times. I’ve done it myself. Started it or picked it up, either.”

“Well, that’s like kindness. Pick it up, pass it along. Let everybody who hears it, catch on; understand? So, that’s what I mean. You may never have a chance to do anything especially for me—and you may have dozens; but that doesn’t matter. Keep it moving. The first time you have an opportunity to be decent to somebody else, why—just be decent, and say to yourself: ‘That’s because the doctor picked me out of a snow-drift.’ The Lord will keep the account all straight, and settle it in His own good time. We don’t have to worry about that part, fortunately; else our spiritual book-keeping would get sadly mixed.”

They were both silent for a brief while, and the words made a deep impression upon Towsley’s heart; a warm and gentle heart at all times, though not always a wise one in its judgments.

“Well, my boy. I’m waiting for your story, and I’m a pretty busy man. Along about time for giving out the papers you wouldn’t care to be hindered needlessly, would you?”

A brilliant smile broke over the sharp little face upon the pillow.

“No, I wouldn’t, and you don’t. Well, here it is;” and very briefly, but graphically, the alley vagrant sketched the story of his acquaintance with Miss Armacost and his flight from her house.

The doctor listened without interruption till after the tale was done; then he asked:

“How about that wandering melody of kindness, eh, my boy?”

“I don’t know what you mean. I mean—I—I——”

Down in his warm heart Towsley did know, though he hated to acknowledge it. He tried to justify himself in his own eyes as well as in those of the good physician.

“She hadn’t any right to take away my clothes. All the clothes I had. She took away my name, too.”

“Were they very good clothes, Towsley?”

“No. But they were mine!” fiercely.

“And the name. Is it a very honorable name, laddie?”

“It’s just as honorable as I make it, sir! I needn’t be an Alley boy always, just because—because—nobody knows who my folks were.”

“No, indeed. That you need not. That you will not be, for you’ve the spirit to succeed. Only you need a little of the spirit of generosity, too. The wandering melody again, you see. We can never quite get away from it. Now, I’m going on my rounds through the wards. I’ll stop in, after an hour or so, and see if you have any errand for me to do. Good-by. Take a nap, then think it over. I’ll be back again.”

Towsley didn’t nap at all. He lay wide-eyed and full of thought, staring at the white ceiling overhead, and occasionally touching a pansy which nurse Brady had laid beside him on his pillow. As he fondled and looked at the flower, more and more it gradually began to assume the face and features of a delicate little old lady whom he knew. It was a white pansy, with faint lavender patches on its lateral and lower petals; dashed, like all its kind, by little touches of darker hue. Yes, it was a face—Miss Lucy’s face. Those two white upper leaves were her snowy curls under her every-day lace cap. The eyes, the keen, whimsical little mouth—all were there; and the newsboy looked and remembered—till the eyes seemed to gather tears and the pursed-up mouth to tremble like a child’s—like Sarah Jane’s, when she had been denied a share in her brothers’ games.

Had there been tears in Miss Lucy’s eyes, last night, behind those gleaming glasses? Had it been out of love, after all, that she had given him her dead nephew’s pretty garments and her dead nephew’s aristocratic name?

It was all very puzzling, and Towsley felt unequal to solving the riddle, although it was he who always was first among the fellows to find the answers to the printed riddles on the children’s page of the weekly Express. He shut his eyes a moment, to see things a little better, and after the ceiling and the pansy were thus put out of sight he did begin to understand quite clearly.

Tears? He hated them. There should never any be shed for him, that he could prevent. On that point he made up his mind, and he shut his lids down tighter, so that nothing should alter his sudden resolution.

What was that sound?

Towsley’s eyes opened with a snap. He was sure that they had not been closed a second, but the nurse laughed when he so declared; he always afterward believed that some sort of magic had been used to change things about in that little hospital bedroom.

For there on the tiny dresser was lightly tossed a rich fur robe that looked as if it had just slipped off somebody’s slender shoulders. It was an old-fashioned robe, Towsley saw that, and the bonnet which had fallen to the floor beside it was quite out of style, also.

“Regular old timer, ain’t it! And she’s an old timer, too, but—the tears! Shucks! He wished nobody would ever cry. He hated tears!” again thought Towsley. And then he stole his hand around the neck of the little old lady who was kneeling beside his cot, and remarked, generously:

“Oh! I say, Miss Lucy, please don’t. It’s all right. I didn’t behave very—very gentlemanly, I guess, but if you like I’m willing to try it over again. I’ll be your little boy if you want me, and if I have to be ‘Lionel,’ just make it Towsley, too, can’t you?”

“Oh! you darling! I didn’t know that it could be possible; that in so short a time a stranger child could creep so closely into my affection. I’ve been hearing such a lot about you, from Molly, you know. Oh! my dear, I am so thankful that you did not perish. So thankful that my eyes have been opened to see how lonely and selfish a life I’ve led. Just to think, to think, that I have at last a dear little human boy to love and to love me! All day I’ve thought about you and seemed to feel that it was Lionel, our own Lionel, who had wandered out into the storm to suffer so; and—and——”

This was too much for the gamin. He was still that. He had not yet been transformed into the gentleman he aspired to become, and in a way that was more honest than courteous he forestalled another hysterical outburst on the part of his overwrought benefactress.

“Hold on, Miss Lucy. It’s all right. I ain’t dead nor dyin’. It’s the wandering melody of the kindness, as the doctor said. Don’t you know? He was good to me, and I’ll be good to you, and you’ll be good to somebody else; and that’s the way it goes. I can tell you of a lot of fellows to be kind to. Whistling Jerry, and Battles, and Shiner. Oh! there are a plenty to fill the house full, but there won’t any of them stand being cried over. It would scare the life out of ’em. A kick or a blow—that they wouldn’t mind, being used to it, you see, but tears—they’d scat! like kittens with a dog after them. They would, indeed.”

“Oh!” gasped Miss Lucy, rising from her knees—“Oh! but I’ve nothing to do with these—these boys with the objectionable names. It is yourself only, my child, whom I want to live with me. Just you; to be my one, only, little precious boy.”

“Then, I guess we’d better drop it. I was only trying to be good to you.”