And Billy, as he watched her face and heard her words, forbore to urge, even though he dreaded for Cicely the future of which she spoke so bravely. The crash had been more disastrous and final than he had been led to suppose from the earlier reports. Both he and Theodora would have been only too glad to keep Cicely in their home; but they knew the girl was right, her place was with her father. Accordingly, they ceased to oppose; and only did their best to make the rest of her stay with them as happy as possible and to help her in her plans for her future home. Together with the McAlisters, they chose their Christmas gifts for her carefully, wisely, even merrily, for fun had a large share in Christmas at The Savins; but only Theodora knew that Billy had bought a small annuity for Cicely, and that the papers were to be given to her, not in the basket on Christmas eve, but when she was quite alone, on Christmas morning.

"I've a good deal more than we are likely to use," Billy had said rather apologetically, one night; "and even if it doesn't support her, it may as well help along a little. Cicely is a good girl, and I wish there were more like her."

And Theodora's assent was a hearty one.

"Phebe, how long is Mr. Barrett going to stay up here?" Theodora asked, a day or two before Christmas.

"I don't know."

"I thought he was going, to-morrow morning."

"Well, is he?"

"Probably not, inasmuch as I heard him ask you to go to drive with him, in the afternoon"

"Well, what difference does it make? He's free to stay at the hotel as long as he likes; isn't he?"

"Yes, if he doesn't starve in the meantime. But it seems to me it would be well to ask him here to Christmas dinner, if he is going to be in town."

"I wouldn't."

"Why not?" Theodora asked, in some surprise.

"Christmas is no day to ask strangers here."

"But Mr. Barrett isn't a stranger. Besides, he has been so good to Cicely that I think we owe him a little hospitality."

"You must do as you like, then," Phebe said curtly, and she marched away out of the room, leaving Theodora to knit her brows m anxious perplexity.

However, the next afternoon, the snow was falling heavily, and Phebe's drive was out of the question. At the appointed hour, she glanced out of the window to see Gifford Barrett wading up the path to the front door, and she vanished to her own room.

"Come in," she said, in answer to her mother's knock.

"Mr. Barrett is here, Phebe."

"Is he?"

"Yes, he has asked for you."

"But I'm busy."

"Never mind, Babe. Please hurry down, for I am too busy to stay with him, and I don't like to leave him alone."

"Oh, I really don't think he would steal the spoons," Phebe said languidly, as she rose. "Well, if I must, I suppose I must. I'll be down before long."

She turned to her closet and took down a dark red gown which had just come home from the dressmaker. It was the most becoming gown she had ever owned, and Phebe was quite aware of the fact. She laid it on the bed and stood looking at it for a minute or two. Then she shut her lips resolutely, hung it up again, picked a loose thread or two from the plain blue gown she wore, and marched down the stairs.

Mr. Barrett rose to greet her, as she came stalking into the room. His manner was boyishly eager, his eyes brimming with mischief, as he took her hand and then offered her a small round package wrapped in dainty blue papers.

"Merry Christmas, Miss McAlister! Wasn't it too bad of the snow to spoil our drive?"

"I like a white Christmas," Phebe said perversely. "What's this?"

"A little offering for the season's greeting," he said, laughing. "It is really only a case of returning your own to you."

She took the package in her hands, and, as her fingers closed over it, she began to laugh in her turn.

"Oh, it's my skull," she said. "I'm so glad to have it again. I shall want it when I go back to Philadelphia."

His face fell.

"I thought you weren't going back."

"Of course I shall go back."

"But if you are homesick?"

"I shall get over it."

"And the clinics?"

"Nobody ever died of a clinic—except the patient," she said grimly.

He stood looking at her steadily, and any one but Phebe would have known the meaning of his expression; but she was examining the skull intently.

"You are sure you don't want it any longer?" she asked.

"No; I think there are some other things I would rather have," he returned.

She shook her head.

"It is a good one, Mr. Barrett, small and quite perfect, and it is yours by right of possession."

"Phebe," he said, as he came a step nearer her; "my ancestors were Yankees and I inherit all their love of a trade. You take the skull and give me—" and he took it as he spoke; "your hand, dear."

She drew her hand away sharply and turned to face him. Then the color fled from her cheeks, only to rush back again and mount to the roots of her hair.

"Oh, Gifford," she said brokenly; "I'd like to ever so much, only—do you really think we'd better?"

An hour later, the two young people sat side by side on the sofa, talking over and over the wonderful thing that had happened to them.

"I must go back to New York, the day after Christmas," Mr. Barrett said; "but you will write to me often; won't you, Phebe?"

"If I have anything to tell," she answered; "but I never could write letters, you know."

"You could once."

"How do you know?"

For his only answer, he opened his cardcase and took out a folded scrap of paper.

"How about this?" he asked, as he handed it to her.

She took it curiously and unfolded it. Then she turned scarlet as she read the four lines written there.

"Dehr Sir

"THis mOney iis to pey to P ay for you r wheel anD yoour docors bill WE are sorrry y u fel loff a and We hooppe you will be butTER sooon A SINCERE FRind"

"I owe you some money," he added, when she had finished reading it. "But what moved you to send it?"

"My conscience. I supposed you were a poor, struggling musician, and I was really afraid you would starve to death if I didn't help you out, so I borrowed Teddy's typewriter and went to work."

"Give it back to me," he commanded; but she was too quick for him, and a dozen scraps of paper fluttered into the fire.

"It's the end of that old story," she announced briefly.

"And the beginning of our new one," he added, as the door swung open and Dr. McAlister came into the room.

Christmas day dawned, clear and crisp and bracing, and The Savins was gay with Christmas wreaths, with holly and mistletoe boughs. The rooms were in their annual state of disorder, for Christmas gifts and Christmas jokes were piled on all the tables and chairs. Gifford Barrett had been included in the revel of the evening before, and now, at the Christmas dinner, he sat in the place of honor, next Mrs. McAlister. In all its history, The Savins had never held a merrier party, and Dr. McAlister's face was quite content as he glanced down one side of the table where Phebe, radiant but shamefaced, was trying to conceal something of her rapture under a show of severity, then down the other where Allyn's open content with life was matched by Cicely's brave courage in facing whatever the coming year might have in store for her. Then, as he looked past and beyond them all to his wife, he threw back his handsome, iron-grey head proudly.

"It is a good Christmas," he said, in the sudden hush which fell upon the table; "a good Christmas and a merry one. Bess, we'll change the dear old toast, and say, Here's to our good health, and our family's and may we all live long—and prosper!"

Theodora was in her usual seat beside her father. Now she leaned forward and laid her hand on his.

"Selah!" she said devoutly.

THE END