Jim had listened in intense amusement.  How positive she was and how authoritative!  Her straight little back, her severe braids, her stern blue eyes roving the hall as she touched the familiar chords, were all so different from the vague young women who were Barbara’s friends.  She played a few wandering chords after the distribution of gifts began, watching the children file up the aisle, and listening, with only an occasional lifting of her blue eyes to his face, to Doctor Studdiford’s smiling comments.  Her heart was beating high under a flood of unsensed joy, she did not know why—­but she was happy beyond all words.

“I’m afraid I’ll have to go help Miss Pierce and Miss Furey, Doctor,” she said presently, standing up.  “Our Miss Scott, who got married two years ago, used to be a perfect wonder at times like this!  Here, little girl, little girl!  You don’t come to the classes, do you?  No?  Well, then, go back to your seat and wait—­ you see!” She turned despairingly to Jim.  “You see, they’re simply making a mess of it!”

“I have to go, anyway,” said Jim.

“Oh?” Julia turned surprised eyes toward him, and said the one thing she meant to avoid.  “But Mrs. Toland and Miss Barbara are coming,” she submitted.

“And what of it?” Jim said meaningly.  It was his turn to say the awkward thing.  “How are the nerves these days?” he asked quickly.

Colour flooded Julia’s face.

“Much better, thank you!  I gave the tonic up weeks ago.  It was just nerves,” explained Julia, “a sort of breakdown after we came back from Cloverdale!  And I’m so much obliged to you!” she ended shyly.

“Oh, not at all, not at all!” Jim protested gruffly.  An unmanageable silence hung between them for a few seconds; then Julia, with a murmured excuse, went to the extrication of Miss Pierce, now hopelessly involved in a surge of swarming children, and Jim went on his way.  He carried with him a warm memory of the erect young figure in white, and the thick twisted braid, set against a background of Christmas green.  For Julia the rest of the afternoon was enchanted; an enchantment subtly flavoured with the odour of evergreen, and pierced by rapturous voices, and by the glowing colours of the Christmas tree, and the slapping rain at the window.

She and Miss Toland sat down, exhausted and well satisfied, at seven o’clock, to a scrappy little supper in the littered dining-room:  one director had left chocolates, another violets; a child’s soiled hair ribbon, still tied, lay on the floor; the chairs were pushed about at all angles.

“Give me some more coffee, dear, and open that box of candy,” said Miss Toland luxuriously.  “We’ll sleep late, and go to high mass at the Cathedral.  Alice always has room in her pew.  And then we might go over to Sausalito and say ‘Merry Christmas.’  They’ll all be scattered; Jim tells me he and my brother have an operation at twelve, poor wretches!  And I suppose Barbara and little Sally will be off somewhere.  Sally always tries to keep them together for Christmas Eve, but in my opinion they’re all bored by this tree and stocking business.  But of course Ned and his extraordinary wife will be all over the place!”