The Fincherie Christmas tree had been a great success with a Mrs. Santa Claus in a foam of tulle and lace instead of an apple-dumpling gentleman in a red jerkin and leather boots.

Every one had everything, so the rumor went, and Thurley sang carols until she repeated “God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen” for the third time and fled in self-defence.

Bliss Hobart had come into the Corners unexpectedly that morning and, after Thurley’s exit, he stood up to suggest three cheers for the Fincherie gray angel, which were given by a happy, well fed community who began to think about the joys of sleep.

Ali Baba, who had always placed Hobart high in personal esteem, tramped over to inform him that Thurley was in the little breakfast room of the original Fincherie.

Hobart moved in that direction with alacrity. He found Thurley sorting over a bundle of letters.

“If you hadn’t come to the Fincherie,” she began, “I should have come to New York to ask you what to do with these people?” She held out some of the letters.

He glanced at them. “Oh, managers will badger any one who has been a gold mine—that’s to be expected. I, myself, was to make a faint protest about too much retirement, but when Mrs. Santa Claus has been a real joy spreader, it isn’t fair to harass her, is it?”

“None of you can bother me overly much. I’m resolved to sing just enough to make people always want me, and live enough to be able to sing my best. There!”

“May you follow that advice! But let’s talk about sentimental things. I always find myself slipping this time of the year.” He sat beside her.

“Stoical dreamer! I’m just beginning to understand you.”

“You didn’t give me a Christmas present.”

“You didn’t give me one,” she began.

But he drew a small box from his pocket and presented it.

“Why, Bliss!” She was too pleased to conceal her delight. She opened it to find a locket of palest gold with a fine, shining chain. The locket yielded to the pressure of her thumb and within was space for some loved one’s face, while on the other side was made in bas relief an enamelled violet crown.

“You think I—really—have—” she began.

“I do, and I think I really want you to marry me,” he said very positively. “I don’t want you to answer by quoting a half mad woman’s request made to an untutored girl. Will you marry me, Thurley, battered old dreamer of nearly forty who hadn’t the courage to put into execution what he thought, who had to tell it to a gray angel who went and did? Will you?”

“Let’s talk about Ernestine and Caleb’s new book; or Collin’s statue of Polly that is so marvellous, or Mark,—did you know he really is on the road to right? Let me tell about Dan, how invaluable he has become to every one in the town, saying just the right, ‘Steady, mates,’ to the boys up here, going on in his business, loving Lorraine a trifle harder than ever and keeping a weather eye out for town improvements. And did you hear about Hortense Quinby? She has killed herself—”

“I can wait an additional ten minutes,” he conceded; “what about Hortense?”

“The boy she fancied was in love with her married his own sweetheart without delay and Hortense ended it in a foolish, mad fashion! You know how she was—how such women are—”

“Better out of the game,” Hobart commented grimly.

“It touches me, not the tragedy itself, but the wasted life.... Bliss, do you know that nearly anything under the sun can be readjusted satisfactorily if people will only be honest regarding the facts concerning it? You call fame the violet crown and I call the stay-at-homes the gray angels; you say true artists are a vanguard—fine sounding names! But there is nothing new about it, is there? The idea of substituting one idea, theory or name for another to act as a rejuvenation of the brain and keep inspiration of the heart aglow began before the days of the pyramids! It is necessary to keep interest top hole and while the basis of it is almost hallucination and it may tend towards madness, the advantages do outweigh the tendencies. The name—the violet crown,” she caressed the locket with her hands, “spurs me on to be a gray angel and that name has comforted Polly, Lorraine, Ernestine—and will many others. To belong to the vanguard of civilization—what strange intoxication is there in the title!—to battle with art-intrigues,—romantic phrase! I could never be without it. Bliss, what oddities human beings are—”

“And now, will you marry me?” he asked meekly.

“Lissa has failed to find a duke and the Hotel Particular is for sale; she staked everything on winning a title or a patroness. What will become of her?”

“Unfortunately life travels so much more swiftly than justice, I am afraid she may find another loophole of escape ... such people often do.... But will you marry me?”

“And I find myself growing as particular as Dorothy, wife of Sir Thomas Brown, who wished her ‘shewes to be eythar pinke or blewe,’” she continued, “for I cannot—”

“I will not be cheated of another moment—answer me.”

“You love me, that way?” she asked gravely.

“All ways. Surely, Miss Clergy’s promise—”

“It is not that,” she admitted, “for when she died she left me the message, ‘Tell Thurley to use her own judgment.’ It is not that.”

“Then what—unless you don’t love me?”

“A great disillusionment waits for you,” she said honestly. “I am only a womanly hypocrite. I am not worthy of the violet crown nor the vanguard. I’m as simple hearted as Lorraine and far more stupid when you come to know the real me.... I have always loved you. I flirted only to see if it would not rouse the man of you to protest. I let Lissa influence me, harm my voice, color my notions, to see if you would not speak out as ‘my man,’ not my singing teacher, my master critic.... I tried in every avenue I could, Bliss, to make you care. Finally, you told me your vision and the greatest joy of it was not the vision but the thought you were sharing it with me. I told myself, ‘at last I have something to work for, something with which I can tempt his interest—bait for his affection’—you see? So I set to work to live according to your ideals, not that I did not believe it, but because you, your own self, had told me of it and it was your fondest wish to see it realized.... Miss Clergy’s death brought me the fortune ... the glorious ending of the war my opportunity ... and so on. Now you say you love me. And I love you. But I warn you that all your visions and ideals mattered not so much as the fact of your sharing them with me, the nearest I had ever come to being essential to some one, belonging to some one—as I fancied in the old circus days when I played the bearded lady was my mother and the animals my brothers and sisters. F-funny, isn’t it? Well, am I altogether too disappointing—clay toes will peep out but it is better you should see them now—not later.” She waited his verdict, her head tilted defiantly and the glorious, blue eyes smiling bravely.

He did not hesitate. “Do you know a man’s greatest joy is to discover the one he loves best of every one is not all gray angel, that he will not have to exist on the heights, even though he is prepared to break masculine precedent and do so, but a real woman with adorable weaknesses and amusing faults, spasms of ‘intuition’ and bothers about becoming hats and concern as to the said man’s habit of not wearing overshoes—that she will not scorn a broad shoulder to weep on if the cook leaves unceremoniously, nor a bit of domination when it comes to selecting the right school for the boy or the number of frocks for the girl’s coming out? Now, I’ve matched clay toes with you, most delightful lover’s game in the world.... Let me whisper something else, Thurley; I was growing afraid of you. I thought I had better capture you while you were content to be merely a gray angel lest you become the shining, white spirit of the vanguard and such a happening be made impossible.”

Without waiting for her approval, he took her in his arms.

Making the nightly rounds to see if the windows were properly fastened, Ali Baba paused in the offing. He glanced up at the mistletoe under which he had happened to halt and smiled with sentimental satisfaction.

“Land sakes and Mrs. Davis,” he chuckled, “I guess Miss Abby was dead to rights when she left it to Thurley’s judgment!”