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.