Since the tree was for children only, no gifts for the older people appeared among its branches, but in the night some silent-footed Kriss Kringle made his stealthy rounds, and left a gay little red and white stocking by every bedside.  Mary discovered hers early in the morning, after the maid had been in to turn on the heat in the radiator, and close the windows.  She wondered how it could have been placed there without her knowledge, for the slightest motion set the tiny bells on heel and toe a-jingling.  She touched it several times just to start the silvery tinkle, then sitting up in bed emptied its treasures out on the counterpane.  It was filled with bon-bons and many inexpensive trifles, but down in the toe was a little gold thimble, from Patricia.

It was in the chair under the stocking that she found the gloves from Eugenia, the book from “Cousin Carl” and a long box that she opened with breathless interest because Phil’s card lay atop.  On it was scribbled, “The ‘Best Man’s’ best wishes for a Merry Christmas to Mary.”

Tearing off the ribbons and the tissue paper wrappings she lifted the lid, and then drew a long rapturous breath, exclaiming, “Roses!  American Beauty roses!  The first flowers a man ever sent me—­and from the Best Man!”

She laid her face down among the cool velvety petals and closed her eyes, drinking in the fragrance.  Then she lifted each perfect bud and half blown flower to examine it separately, revelling in the sweetness and colour.  Then the uncomfortable thought occurred to her that she was happier over this gift than she had been over the furs or the long-wished-for ring, and she began to make excuses to herself.

“Maybe if I’d always had them sent to me as Lloyd and Betty and the other girls have, it wouldn’t seem such a big thing.  But this is the first time.  Of course it doesn’t mean anything as it would if he had sent them to Lloyd.  He is in love with her.  Still—­I’m glad he chose roses.”

She touched the last one to her lips.  It was so cool and sweet that she held it there a moment before she slipped out of bed and ran across the room to thrust the long stems into the water pitcher.  She would ask the maid for a more fitting receptacle after awhile, but in the meantime she would keep them fresh as possible.

When she went down to breakfast she wore one thrust in her belt, and some of its colour seemed to have found its way into her cheeks when she thanked Phil for his gift.  The same rose was pinned on her coat, when later in the morning they went to a Christmas service at St. Boniface, the little stone church in the village, a mile away.  Eugenia had suggested their going.  She said it would be such a picture with the snow on its ivy-covered belfry, and the icicles hanging from the eaves.  Some noted singer was to be in the choir, and would sing several solos.  The walking would be fine through the dry crunching snow, and as they had right of way through all of the neighbouring estates between them and the village, it would be like going through an English park.