"I like a white Christmas," Phebe said perversely. "What's this?"

"A little offering for the season's greeting," he said, laughing. "It is
really only a case of returning your own to you."

She took the package in her hands, and, as her fingers closed over it,
she began to laugh in her turn.

"Oh, it's my skull," she said. "I'm so glad to have it again. I shall
want it when I go back to Philadelphia."

His face fell.

"I thought you weren't going back."

"Of course I shall go back."

"But if you are homesick?"

"I shall get over it."

"And the clinics?"

"Nobody ever died of a clinic--except the patient," she said grimly.

He stood looking at her steadily, and any one but Phebe would have known
the meaning of his expression; but she was examining the skull intently.

"You are sure you don't want it any longer?" she asked.

"No; I think there are some other things I would rather have," he
returned.

She shook her head.

"It is a good one, Mr. Barrett, small and quite perfect, and it is yours
by right of possession."

"Phebe," he said, as he came a step nearer her; "my ancestors were
Yankees and I inherit all their love of a trade. You take the skull and
give me--" and he took it as he spoke; "your hand, dear."

She drew her hand away sharply and turned to face him. Then the color
fled from her cheeks, only to rush back again and mount to the roots
of her hair.

"Oh, Gifford," she said brokenly; "I'd like to ever so much, only--do
you really think we'd better?"

An hour later, the two young people sat side by side on the sofa, talking
over and over the wonderful thing that had happened to them.

"I must go back to New York, the day after Christmas," Mr. Barrett said;
"but you will write to me often; won't you, Phebe?"

"If I have anything to tell," she answered; "but I never could write
letters, you know."

"You could once."

"How do you know?"

For his only answer, he opened his cardcase and took out a folded scrap
of paper.

"How about this?" he asked, as he handed it to her.

She took it curiously and unfolded it. Then she turned scarlet as she
read the four lines written there.

"Dehr Sir

"THis mOney iis to pey to P ay for you r wheel anD yoour docors bill WE
are sorrry y u fel loff a and We hooppe you will be butTER sooon A
SINCERE FRind"

"I owe you some money," he added, when she had finished reading it. "But
what moved you to send it?"

"My conscience. I supposed you