Ethel and Maggie never played together.  Their acquaintance was simply a bowing one—­better perhaps, a smiling one.  From one window in the big playroom which was so far to one side of the house that Ethel could see past the garage and get a glimpse of the window of the living-room in Maggie’s house, the two little girls at first stared at each other.  One day Maggie nodded and smiled, then Ethel, feeling very much frightened, for she had been cautioned against playing with or noticing the children in the alley, nodded and smiled back.  Now neither of the children felt happy unless they had held a pantomimic conversation from window to window at some time during the day.

It was Christmas morning.  Ethel awoke very early, as all properly organized children do on that day at least.  She had a beautiful room in which she slept alone.  Adjacent to it, in another room almost as beautiful, slept Celeste, her mamma’s French maid.  Ethel had been exquisitely trained.  She lay awake a long time before making a sound or movement, wishing it were time to arise.  But Christmas was strong upon her, the infection of the season was in her blood.  Presently she slipped softly out of bed, pattered across the room, paused at the door which gave entrance to the hall which led to her mother’s apartments, then turned and plumped down upon Celeste.

“Merry Christmas,” she cried shaking the maid.

To awaken Celeste was a task of some difficulty.  Ordinarily the French woman would have been indignant at being thus summarily routed out before the appointed hour but something of the spirit of Christmas had touched her as well.  She answered the salutation of the little girl kindly enough, but as she sat up in bed she lifted a reproving finger.

“But,” she said, “you mus’ keep ze silence, Mademoiselle Ethel.  Madame, votre maman, she say she mus’ not be disturb’ in ze morning.  She haf been out ver’ late in ze night and she haf go to ze bed ver’ early.  She say you mus’ be ver’ quiet on ze Matin de Noel!”

“I will be quiet, Celeste,” answered the little girl, her lip quivering at the injunction.

It was so hard to be repressed all the time but especially on Christmas Day of all others.

“Zen I will help you to dress immediatement, and zen Villiam, he vill call us to see ze tree.”

Never had the captious little girl been more docile, more obedient.  Dressing Ethel that morning was a pleasure to Celeste.  Scarcely had she completed the task and put on her own clothing when there was a tap on the door.

“Vat is it?”

“Mornin’, Miss Celeste,” spoke a heavy voice outside, a voice subdued to a decorous softness of tone, “if you an’ Miss Ethel are ready, the tree is lit, an’—­”

“Ve air ready, Monsieur Villiam,” answered Celeste, throwing open the door dramatically.

Ethel opened her mouth to welcome the butler—­for if that solemn and portentous individual ever unbent it was to Miss Ethel, whom in his heart of hearts he adored—­but he placed a warning finger to his lip and whispered in an awestruck voice: