It was the “Fairchance” that the boys had planned so long, with its rose-bordered paths, the orchard and garden and outlying fields.  Nothing had been forgotten, from the big Newfoundland dog on the doorstep, to the ducks on the pond, and the little speckled pigs in the pen.  The day that Keith was able to walk down-stairs for the first time, Mr. Maclntyre went to Chicago, taking Jonesy with him, to find Barney and bring him back.  He was gone several days, and when he returned there were three boys with him instead of two:  Jonesy, Barney, and a little fellow about five years old, still in dresses.

Malcolm met them at the train, and eyed the small newcomer with curiosity.  “It is a little chap that Barney had taken under his wing,” explained Mr. Maclntyre.  “Its mother was dead, and I found it was entirely dependent on Barney for support.  They slept together in the same cellar, and shared whatever he happened to earn, just as Jonesy did.  I hadn’t the heart to leave him behind, although I didn’t relish the idea of travelling with such a kindergarten.  Would you believe it, Dodds (that’s the little fellow’s name) never saw a tree in his life until yesterday?  He had never been out of the slums where he was born, not even to the avenues of the city where he could have seen them.  It was too far for him to walk alone, and street-cars were out of the question for him,—­as much out of reach of his empty pockets as the moon.”

“Never saw a tree!” echoed Malcolm, with a thrill of horror in his voice that a life could be so bare in its knowledge of beauty.  “Oh, papa, how much ‘Fairchance’ will mean to him, then!  Oh, I’m so glad, and Keith—­why, Keith will want to stand on his head!”

They drove directly to the new place.  It was late in the afternoon, and the sunshine threw long, waving shadows across the yard.  Mrs. Sudsberger sat on the front porch knitting.  A warm breeze blowing in from the garden stirred the white window curtains behind her with soft flutterings.  The coloured woman in the kitchen was singing as she moved around preparing supper, and her voice floated cheerily around the corner of the house: 

     “Swing low, sweet chariot, comin’ fer to carry me home,
     Swing low, sweet char-i-ot, comin’ fer to carry me home!”

A Jersey cow lowed at the pasture bars, and from away over in the woodland came the cooing of a dove.  Three little waifs had found a home.

Mr. Maclntyre looked from the commonplace countenances of the boys climbing out of the carriage to Malcolm’s noble face.  “It is a doubtful experiment,” he said to himself.  “They may never amount to anything, but at least they shall have a chance to see what clean, honest, country living can do for them.”  And then there swept across his heart, with a warm, generous rush, the impulse to do as much for every other unfortunate child he could reach, whose only heritage is the poverty and crime of city slums.  He had seen so much in that one short visit.  The misery of it haunted him, and it was with a happiness as boyish and keen as Malcolm’s that he led these children he had rescued into the home that was to be theirs henceforth.