[Illustration:  Their fluffy laces burnt and blackened.  Chiffon fichus torn in ribbons strewed the carpet.  Page 138.

—­Rosemary.]

It was a sight to turn the brain of Madame in the magasin of smart “confections,” nor would the presiding genius of the toy shop have gone scathless, for Rosemary’s possessions had not been spared by the cyclone.

Dolls had lost their wigs, their arms, their legs; and beautiful blue eyes had been poked into far recesses of porcelain heads, with ruthless scissors.  Little dresses of silk and satin had been flung to feed the flames which devoured ill-starred blouses; picture books had made fine kindlings; and that proud and stately mansion which might have afforded shelter to many dolls had collapsed as if shattered by a cyclone.

“Oh, Angel, is it some dreadful dream?” wailed Rosemary; and Evelyn found no answer.  But Hugh had pounced upon a card pinned on the window curtain; and as he held it out, in eloquent silence, she read aloud over his shoulder; “Compliments of Mademoiselle de Lavalette.”

At the end of the first shocked instant, they both laughed wildly, desperately.  It was the only thing to do.

“After all,” gasped Evelyn, “she has paid me back—­what she owed me,—­and Rosemary.”

“She’s given me the pleasure of making Christmas come all over again, to-morrow, that’s all,” said Hugh.  “Women are strange.  Thank heaven, she has vanished.”

“But nothing matters—­at least not much,” said Rosemary, smiling through her tears, “since you’re not going to vanish, fairy father.”

THE END

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Transcriber’s Notes: 

Punctuation normalized.

Page 117, Eze changed to Eze to match rest of text (Eze children).

Page 122, bet changed to bete (la petite bete).