“I—­I—­couldn’t understand why Swot suddenly—­why he—­I never dreamed of his doing it,” faltered the girl.

“His and my knowledge of social conventions are about on a par,” responded the man, with a set look to his mouth.  “Shall I give it back to him or to you?”

Constance drew a deep breath.  “It wasn’t—­my—­gift—­but—­but—­I don’t mind your keeping it if you wish.”

“You mean—?” cried Dr. Armstrong, incredulously.

“Oh,” said the girl, hurriedly, “isn’t that enough, now?  Please, oh, please—­wait—­for a little.”

The doctor caught her hand and kissed it.  “Till death, if you ask it!” he said.

Five minutes later Swot abstracted himself sufficiently from his gifts to peep around the tree and ecstatically inquire,—­

“Say, oin’t dis de doisiest Christmas dat ever wuz?”

“Yes,” echoed the two in the bay-window.

“Did youse like me present, doc?”

“Yes,” reiterated the doctor, with something in his voice that gave the word tenfold meaning.

“Ise tought youse ‘ud freeze to it, an’ it wuzn’t no sorter good to me.”

Constance laughed happily.  “Still, I’m very glad I gave it to you, Swot,” she said, with a glance of the eyes, half shy and half arch, at the man beside her.

“Did youse like Miss Constance’s present too, doc?”

“Yes,” replied the doctor, “especially the one you haven’t seen, Swot.”

“Wot wuz dat?”

“A something called hope—­which is the finest thing in the world.”

“No.  There is one thing better,” said Miss Durant.

“What is it?”

“Love!” whispered Constance, softly.

***FINIS***