Over the mantel hung a picture that had been a pleasure to Joyce ever since she had taken up her abode in this quaint blue room.  It was called “A Message from Noel,” and showed an angel flying down with gifts to fill a pair of little wooden shoes that some child had put out on a window-sill below.  When madame had explained that the little French children put out their shoes for Saint Noel to fill, instead of hanging stockings for Santa Claus, Joyce had been so charmed with the picture that she declared that she intended to follow the French custom herself, this year.

Now, even the picture looked different, since she had lost her joyful anticipations of Christmas.  “It is all No-el to me now,” she sobbed.  “No tree, no Santa Claus, and now, since the money must go to pay for the goats’ mischief, no presents for anybody in the dear little brown house at home,—­not even mamma and the baby!”

A big salty tear trickled down the side of Joyce’s nose and splashed on her hand; then another one.  It was such a gloomy ending for her happy Thanksgiving Day.  One consoling thought came to her in time to stop the deluge that threatened.  “Anyway, Jules has had a good time for once in his life.”  The thought cheered her so much that, when Marie came in to light the lamps, Joyce was walking up and down the room with her hands behind her back, singing.

As soon as she was dressed for dinner she went down-stairs, but found no one in the drawing-room.  A small fire burned cozily on the hearth, for the November nights were growing chilly.  Joyce picked up a book and tried to read, but found herself looking towards the door fully as often as at the page before her.  Presently she set her teeth together and swallowed hard, for there was a rustling in the hall.  The portiere was pushed aside and madame swept into the room in a dinner-gown of dark red velvet.

To Joyce’s waiting eyes she seemed more imposing, more elegant, and more unapproachable than she had ever been before.  At madame’s entrance Joyce rose as usual, but when the red velvet train had swept on to a seat beside the fire, she still remained standing.  Her lips seemed glued together after those first words of greeting.

“Be seated, mademoiselle,” said the lady, with a graceful motion of her hand towards a chair.  “How have you enjoyed your holiday?”

Joyce gave a final swallow of the choking lump in her throat, and began her humble confession that she had framed up-stairs among the rows of dismal blue wall-paper parrots.  She started with Clotilde Robard’s story of Jules, told of her accidental meeting with him, of all that she knew of his hard life with Brossard, and of her longing for some one to play with.  Then she acknowledged that she had planned the barbecue secretly, fearing that madame would not allow her to invite the little goatherd.  At the conclusion, she opened the handkerchief which she had been holding tightly clenched in her hand, and poured its contents in the red velvet lap.