"I fairly dread to have Christmas come for one reason," had said Mrs.
Gray to her husband beforehand.

"Why? I thought you were counting the days!"

"So I am. But I hate to think of all the presents Sylvia's likely to load us down with. Seems as if she'd done enough. I don't want to be beholden to her for any more."

"Don't worry, Mary. Sylvia's got good sense, and delicate feelings as well as an almighty generous little heart. She'll be the first to think how we'd feel, herself."

Mr. Gray was right. When Christmas came there was a simple, inexpensive trinket for each of the girls, and slightly costlier ones for the bride and Mrs. Gray; little pocket calendars, all just alike, for the men; that was all. Mr. Stevens had taken pleasure in bringing great baskets of candy, adorned with elaborate bows of ribbon, and bunches of violets as big as their heads, to all the "children," a fine plant to Mrs. Gray, and books to Howard and his sons; and Austin's suit-case bulged with all sorts of little treasures, which tumbled out from between his clothes in the most unexpected places, as he unpacked it in the living-room, to the great delight of them all.

"Here's a dress-length of gray silk from Venice for mother," he said, tossing the shimmering bundle into her lap; "I want her to have it made up to wear at Sally's wedding. And here's lace for Sadie and Sally both—the bride and the bride-to-be. Nothing much for the rest of you"—and out came strings of corals and beads, handkerchiefs and photographs, silk stockings and filagree work, until the floor was strewn with pretty things. After all the presents were distributed, it was time to begin to get dinner, and to decorate the great table laid for sixteen. There was a turkey, of course, and a huge chicken pie as well, not to mention mince pies and squash pies and apple pies, a plum pudding and vanilla ice-cream; angel cakes and fruit cakes and chocolate cakes; coffee and cider and blackberry cordial; and after they had all eaten until they could not hold another mouthful, and had "rested up" a little, Sylvia played while they danced the Virginia Reel, Mr. Stevens leading off with Mrs. Gray, and Mr. Gray with Sadie. And finally they all gathered around the piano and sang the good old carols, until it was time for the Elliotts to go home, and for Ruth to carry the sleepy babies up to bed.

Since early fall it had been Sylvia's custom to sit with the family for a time after the early supper was over, and the "dishes done up"; then she went to her own parlor, lighted her open fire, and sat down by herself to read or write letters. But she always left her door wide open, and it was understood that any one who wished to come to her was welcome. Austin was the last to start to bed on Christmas night, and seeing Sylvia still at her desk as he passed her room, he stopped and asked:

"Is it too late, or are you too tired and busy to let me come in for a few minutes?"

She glanced at the clock, smiling. "It isn't very late, I'm not a bit tired, and in a minute I shan't be too busy; I've been working over some stupid documents that I was bound to get through with to-night, but I'm all done now. Throw that rubbish into the fire for me, will you?" she continued, pointing to a pile of torn-up letters and printed matter, "and draw up two chairs in front of the fire. I'll join you in a minute."

He obeyed, then stood watching her as she straightened out her silver desk fixtures, gravely putting everything in perfect order before she turned to him.

"What a beau cavalier you have become," she said, smiling again, as he drew back to let her pass in front of him, and turned her chair to an angle at which the fire could not scorch her face; "what's become of the old Austin? I can't seem to find him at all!"

"Oh, I left him in the woods the night of the fire, I hope," returned Austin, laughing, "while you were asleep. I'm sure neither you nor any one else wants him back."

Sylvia settled herself comfortably, and smoothed out the folds of her dull-black silk dress. "Wouldn't you like to smoke?" she asked; "it's an awfully comfortable feeling—to watch a man smoking, in front of an open fire!"

"I'd love to, if you're sure you don't mind. I don't want to make the air in here heavy—for I suppose you've got to sleep here on this sofa, having allowed yourself to be turned out of your good bed."

She laughed. "I'm so small that I can curl up and sleep on almost anything, like a kitten," she said. "And it's fine to think of being able to give my room to James and Sadie—they're so nice, and so happy together. I can open the windows wide for a few minutes after you've gone, and there won't be a trace of tobacco smoke left. If there were, I shouldn't mind it. Now, what is it, Austin?"

"I want to talk. I haven't seen you a single minute alone. And though the others are all interested, it isn't like telling things to a person who's done all the wonderful things and seen all the wonderful places that I just have. I've simply got to let loose on some one."

"Of course, you have. I thought that was it. Talk away, but not too loud. We mustn't disturb the others, who are all trying to go to sleep by this time. Tell me—which of the Italian cities did you like best—Rome—or Florence—or Naples?"

"Will you think me awfully queer if I say none of them, but after Venice, the little ones, like Assisi, Perugia, and Sienna. I'm so glad we took the time for them. Oh, Sylvia—" And he was off. The little clock on the mantel struck several times, unnoticed by either of them, and it was after one, when, glancing inadvertently at it, Austin sprang to his feet, apologizing for having kept her awake so long, and hastily bade her good-night.

"May I come again some evening and talk more?" he asked, with his hand on the door-handle, "or have I bored and tired you to death? You're a wonderful listener."

"Come as often as you like—I've been learning things, too, that I want to tell you about."

"For instance?"

"Oh, how to cook and sweep and sew—and how to be well and happy and at peace," she added in a lower voice. Then, speaking lightly again, "We'll try to keep up that French you've worked so hard at, together—I'm dreadfully out of practice, myself—and read some of Browning's Italian poems, if you would care to. Goodnight, and again, Merry Christmas."

He left her, almost in a daze of excitement and happiness; and mounted the stairs, turning over everything that had been said and done during the two hours since he entered her room. As he reached the top, a sudden suspicion shot through him. He stopped short, almost breathlessly, then stood for several moments as if uncertain what to do, the suspicion gaining ground with every second; then suddenly, unable to bear the suspense it had created, ran down the stairs again. Sylvia's door was closed; he knocked.

"All right, just a minute," came the ready answer. A minute later the door was thrown open, and Sylvia stood in it, wrapped in a white satin dressing-gown edged with soft fur, her dark hair falling over her shoulders, her neck and arms bare. She drew back, the quick red color flooding her cheeks.

"Austin!" she exclaimed; "I never thought of your coming back—I supposed, of course, it was one of the girls. I can't—you mustn't—" But Sylvia was too much mistress of herself and woman of the world to remain embarrassed long in any situation. She recovered herself before Austin did.

"What has happened?" she asked quickly; "is any one ill?"

"No—Sylvia—what were those papers you gave me to burn?"

"Waste—rubbish. Go to bed, Austin, and don't frighten me out of my wits again by coming and asking me silly questions."

"What kind of waste paper? Please be a little more explicit."

"How did you happen to come back to ask me such a thing—what made you think of it?"

"I don't know—I just did. Tell me instantly, please."

"Don't dictate to me—the last time you did you were sorry."

"Yes—and you were sorry that you didn't listen to me, weren't you?"

"No!" she cried, "I wasn't—not in the end. If I hadn't gone out to ride that day, you never would have gone to Europe—and come back the man you have!"

She turned away from him, her eyes full of tears, her voice shaking. He was quite at a loss to understand her emotion, almost too excited himself to notice it; but he could not help being conscious of the tensity of the moment. He spoke more gently.

"Sylvia—don't think me presuming—I don't mean it that way; and you and I mustn't quarrel again. But I believe I have a right to ask what that document you gave me to burn up was. If you'll give me your word of honor that I haven't—I can only beg your forgiveness for having intruded upon you, and for my rudeness in speaking as I did."

She turned again slowly, and faced him. He wondered if it was the unshed tears that made her eyes so soft.

"You have a right," she said, "and I shouldn't have spoken as I did. You were fair, and I wasn't, as usual. I'll tell you. And will you promise me just to—to give this little slip of paper to your father—and never refer to the matter again, or let him?"

"I promise."

"Well, then," she went on hurriedly, "about a month ago I bought the mortgage on this farm. It seemed to me the only thing that stood in the way of your prosperity now—it hung around your father's neck like a millstone—just the thought that he couldn't feel that this wonderful old place was wholly his, the last years of his life, and that he couldn't leave it intact for you and Thomas and your children after you when he died. So I made up my mind it should be destroyed to-day, as my real Christmas present to you all. The transfer papers were all properly made out and recorded—this little memorandum will show you when and where. But Hiram Hutt's title to the property, and mine—and all the correspondence about them—are in that fireplace. That burden was too heavy for your father to carry—thank God, I've been the one to help lift it!"

In the moment of electrified silence that followed, Sylvia misinterpreted Austin's silence, just as he had failed to understand her tears. She came nearer to him, holding out her hands.

"Please don't be angry," she whispered; "I'll never give any of you anything again, if you don't want me to. I know you don't want—and you don't need—charity; but you did need and want—some one to help just a little—when things had been going badly with you for so long that it seemed as if they never could go right again. You'd lost your grip because there didn't seem to be anything to hang on to! It's meant new courage and hope and life to me to be able to stay here—I'd lost my grip, too. I don't think I could have held on much longer—to my reason even—if I hadn't had this respite. If I can accept all that from you, can't you accept the clear title to a few acres from me? Austin—don't stand there looking at me like that—tell me I haven't presumed too far."

"What made you think I was angry?" he said hoarsely. "Do men dare to be angry with angels sent from Heaven?" He took the little slip of paper which she still held in her extended hand. "I thought you had done something like this—that was why you made me burn the papers myself—in the name of my father—and of my children—God bless you." Without taking his eyes off her face, he drew a tiny box from his pocket. "Sylvia—would you take a present from me?"

"Why, yes. What—"

"It isn't really a present at all, of course, for it was bought with your money, and perhaps you won't like it, for I've noticed you never wear any jewelry. But I couldn't bear to come home without a single thing for you—and this represents—what you've been to me."

As he spoke, he slipped into her hand a delicate chain of gold, on which hung a tiny star; she turned it over two or three times without speaking, and her eyes filled with tears again. Then she said:

"It is a present, for this means you travelled third-class, and stayed at cheap hotels, and went without your lunches—or you couldn't have bought it. You had only enough money for the trip we originally planned, without those six weeks in Italy. I'll wear this piece of jewelry—and it will represent what you've been to me, in my mind. Will you put it on yourself?"

She held it towards him, bending forward, her head down. It seemed to Austin that her loveliness was like the fragrance of a flower. Involuntarily, the hands which clasped the little chain around her white throat, touching the warm, soft skin, fell to her shoulders, and drew her closer.

The swift and terrible change that went over Sylvia's face sent a thrust of horror through him. She shut her eyes, and shrank away, trembling all over, her face grown ashy white. Instantly he realized that the gesture must have replied to her some ghastly experience in the past; that perhaps she had more than once been tricked into an embrace by a gift; that a man's love had meant but one thing to her, and that she now thought herself face to face with that thing again, from one whom she had helped and trusted. For an instant the grief with which this realization filled him, the fresh compassion for all she had suffered, the renewed love for all her goodness, were too much for him. He tried to speak, to take away his hands, to leave her. He seemed to be powerless. Then, blessedly, the realization of what he should do came to him.

"Open your eyes, Sylvia," he commanded.

Too startled to disobey, she did so. He looked into them for a full minute, smiling, and shook his head.

"You did not understand, dear lady," he said. And dropping on his knees before her, he took her hands, laid them against his cheek for a minute, touched them with his lips, and left her.