That Christmas, for the first time in its history, the Byrdsnest held high festival. House and studio were decorated, and in the afternoon there was a Christmas-tree party for all the old friends and their children.

The dining-room had been closed since the night before in order to facilitate Santa Clans' midnight spiritings.

When all the guests had arrived, and Stefan had been wheeled in from the studio, the mysterious door was at last thrown open, revealing the tree in all its glory, rooted in a floor of glittering snow, with its topmost star scraping the ceiling.

With shouts the older children surrounded it; Ellie followed more slowly, awed by such splendor; and Rosamond crept after, drawn irresistibly by a hundred glittering lures.

Crawling from guest to guest, her tiny hands clutching toys as big as herself, her dark eyes brilliant, her small red mouth emitting coos of rapture, she enchanted the men, and drew positive tears of delight from Constance.

“Oh, Walter!” she cried, shaking her son with viciousness, “how could you have been so monotonous as to be born a boy?”

After a time Mary noticed that Stefan was being tired by the hubbub, and signaled an adjournment to the studio for tea and calm. The elders trooped out; the children fell upon the viands; and Miss Mason caught Rosamond by the petticoat as she endeavored to creep out after Gunther, whose great size seemed to fascinate her.

The sculptor had given Mary a bronze miniature of his now famous “Pioneers” group. It was a beautiful thing, and Constance and James were anxious to know if other copies were to be obtained.

“No,” Gunther answered them laconically, “I have only had three cast. One the President wished to have, the second is for myself, and Mrs. Byrd, as the original of the woman, naturally has the third.”

“Couldn't you cast one or two more?” Constance pleaded.

“No,” he replied, “I should not care to do so.”

Stefan examined the bronze with interest, his keen eyes traveling from the man's figure to the woman's.

“It's very good of you both,” he said, looking from Gunther to Mary, with a trace of his old teasing smile. Mary blushed slightly. For some reason which she did not analyze she was a trifle embarrassed at seeing herself perpetuated in bronze as the companion of the sculptor.

When the guests began to leave, Mary urged the Farradays to remain a little longer. “It's only five o'clock,” she reminded them.

Mrs. Farraday settled herself comfortably, and drew out her khaki-colored knitting. James lit his pipe, and Stefan wheeled forward to the glow of the fire, fitting a cigarette into his new amber holder.

“I have a letter from Wallace,” said James, “that I've been waiting to read you. Shall I do so now?”

“Oh, do!” exclaimed Mary, “we shall love to hear it. Wait a moment, though, while I fetch Rosamond—the Sparrow can't attend to them both at once and help Lily.”

She returned in a moment with the sleepy baby.

“I'll have to put her to bed soon,” she said, settling into a low rocking chair, “but it isn't quite time yet. I suppose Jamie has heard his father's letter?”

“Oh, yes,” said James, “and has dozens of his own, too.”

“He's such a dear boy,” Mary continued, “he's playing like an angel with Ellie in there, while the Sparrow flits.”

James unfolded Mac's closely written sheets, and read his latest accounts of the officers' training corps with which he had been for the last six months, the gossip that filtered to them from the front, and his expectation of being soon gazetted to a Highland Regiment.

James turned the last page, and paused. “I think that's about all,” he said.

But it was not all. While the others sat silent for a minute, their thoughts on the great struggle, Farraday's eyes ran again down that last page.

James folded the letter and slipped it into his pocket.

“Come, son, we must be going,” murmured Mrs. Farraday, putting up her knitting.

“Rosamond is almost asleep,” smiled Mary.

“Don't rise, my dear,” said the little lady, “we'll find our own way.”

“Good-bye, Farraday,” said Stefan, “and thank you for everything.”

Mary held out her hand to them both, and they slipped quietly out.

“What a good day it has been, dearest. I hope you aren't too tired,” she said, as she rocked the drowsy baby.

“No, Beautiful, only a little.”

He dropped his burnt-out cigarette into the ash-tray at his side. The rocker creaked rhythmically.

“Mary, I want to draw Rosamond,” said Stefan thoughtfully.

“Oh, do you, dearest? That will be nice!” she exclaimed, her face breaking into a smile of pleasure.

“Yes. Do you know, I was watching the little thing this afternoon, when Gunther and all the others were playing with her. It's very strange—I never noticed it before—but it came to me quite suddenly. She's exactly like my mother.”

“Is she really?” Mary murmured, touched.

“Yes, it's very wonderful. I felt suddenly, watching her eyes and smile, that my mother is not dead after all. Will you—” he seemed a little embarrassed—“could you, do you think, without disturbing her, let me hold the baby for a little while?”

THE END