-."

"And I should have written a ballad about you," said Marion, "and have
sung it to the accompaniment of my harp--and my pot-boilers would never
have been. And we should all have worn trains and picturesque
headdresses instead of shirtwaists and sports hats, and I should have
called some man 'my Lord,' and have listened for his footsteps instead
of ending my days in single blessedness with a type-writer as my
closest companion."

Everybody laughed except Jean. She broke her cheese into small bits
with her fork, and stared down at it as if cheese were the most
interesting thing in the whole wide world.

It was only two weeks since they had had the news of Margaret's
husband--only a month since he had died. And Winston had been Captain
Hewes' dear friend; he had been Derry's. Would anybody laugh if Derry
had been dead only fourteen days?

She tried, however, to swing herself in line with the others. "Shall
you go before Christmas?" she asked the Captain.

"Yes. And Miss Gray had asked me to dine with her. You can see what I
am missing--my first American Christmas."

"We are going to have a little tree," said Drusilla, "and ask all of
you to come and hang presents on it."

Jean had always had a tree at Christmas time. From the earliest days
of her remembrance, there had been set in the window of the little
drawing room, a young pine brought from the Doctor's country-place far
up in Maryland. On Christmas Eve it had been lighted and the doors
thrown open. Jean could see her mother now, shining on one side of it,
and herself coming in, in her nurse's arms.

There had been a star at the top, and snow powdered on the
branches--and gold and silver balls--and her presents piled
beneath--always a doll holding out its arms to her. There had been the
first Rosie-Dolly, more beloved than any other; made of painted cloth,
with painted yellow curls, and dressed in pink with a white apron.
Rosie was a wreck of a doll now, her features blurred and her head bald
with the years--but Jean still loved her, with something left over of
the adoration of her little girl days. Then there was Maude, named in
honor of the lovely lady who had played "Peter Pan," and the last doll
that Jean's mother had given her. Maude had an outfit for every
character in which Jean had seen her prototype--there were the rowan
berries and shawl of "Babbie," the cap and jerkin of "Peter Pan," the
feathers and spurs of "Chantecler"--such a t