“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.