“So here we have our little girl back again,” cried Mr. Barstow as he came gaily into the Austins’ studio on the evening of Ellen’s arrival. “Welcome back to the old ‘haunches,’ as old Potter used to say. Let’s look at you. Grown? I should say so. Almost a young lady, but she keeps her lovely coloring, doesn’t she, Mrs. Austin? Now sit down here and tell us all that you have been doing down there in the country. Milking the cows, feeding the pigs, and all that?”

“I’ve fed nothing but the cat, and I haven’t learned to milk, but I can do a lot of other things.” She ran over a list of her accomplishments in the domestic line.

“Great C?sar! they certainly have been keeping you at it. Good thing, though. When Kogi gets obstreperous I’ll know where to send for a cook. I tell you what we’ll do; we’ll have a spree at my studio some day. I’ll send Kogi off, and you and Mrs. Austin can come over and cook all over the place. What do you consider your chef-d’?uvre?”

“I can make a pretty good omelet, and Cousin Rindy has shown me how to prepare some of the dishes she learned about over in France.”

“Fine! We’ll count on the omelet, and you can think up the other things meanwhile. We’re going to celebrate at my studio on Christmas Eve, you know. All the old crowd will be there, and we shall do our prettiest to have some fun. Now I must be off. Don’t forget, Connie, Christmas Eve. Come early.” He put his head over the top of the screen behind which Mrs. Austin was at work, waved his hand to Ellen, and dashed out.

“May I come see what you are doing?” asked Ellen as the door closed behind Mr. Barstow.

“No, no,” answered Mrs. Austin. “I am finishing your Christmas gift, and wouldn’t have you see it for the world. I must take advantage of the daylight, you know, and there is so little left.”

“A Christmas gift for me! Oh, Mrs. Austin, you shouldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because this visit is a fine enough present.”

“But, don’t you see, you are giving me the visit, and I must do something for you.”

“That is one way to look at it,” Ellen answered. “According to my point of view it is I who receive from you.”

“Well, never mind, don’t let’s talk about it. You’ll get me all fussed up. You go find a book or something to amuse you. There are some magazines over on the big table. When Phil comes in we’ll decide whether we’ll have a delicatessen dinner here or go out somewhere. Make yourself comfortable.”

This delightful lack of ceremony exactly suited Ellen. She wandered around the room for a few minutes, looked at the sketches on the walls, and finally curled herself up on a big couch by the window, to look out upon the familiar streets. One by one the lights flashed out from the tall buildings and from the street lamps, then brilliant signs began to appear, crowds hurried home, elevated trains rumbled along near by, automobiles honked, the siren of a fire engine wailed its warning, while Ellen’s thoughts travelled back to the dear departed days of which all these sights and sounds only too vividly reminded her. She covered her face with her hands as the tears began to gather.

Presently Mrs. Austin came and sat down beside her. She drew her close. “I know, little girl, I know. It is very hard, but we want to give you such a good time while you are here that you will remember that rather than the sad time back of it. We are all such busy people that you may have thought we were forgetting you, but we haven’t forgotten, and we are always going to keep you in our hearts. There comes Phil; let’s see what he wants to do about dinner.”

Mr. Austin came in laden with packages. He was a tall, spare man with near-sighted brown eyes, a pointed Vandyke beard, sandy hair, and a nervous mouth. He had an absent-minded way of looking at you as if he saw not you but a vision. He had met Ellen at the train, delivered her to his wife, and then had gone off to his club.

“I thought it would be rather nice to have a snack here,” he said as he laid the packages on the table. “I was away down-town on Fulton Street to look at that work of Kean’s, so I went over to that Spanish place and got some of those things you like, Connie,—that nougat stuff, and some dandy little cakes.”

“Cakes and candy won’t make a very hearty dinner for Ellen, I’m afraid.”

“But, bless you, child, I got those at the Spanish grocer’s, I told you. Then on my way from the subway I loaded up at the delicatessen.”

“You’re a good child, Phil. I don’t know what I should do without you. Let’s see what you have. Sliced ham, cheese, potato salad, rolls, canned peaches;” she mentioned the articles as she drew them forth from the big bag. “I’ll open a can of soup, and we shall do very well. If we get hungry before bedtime, we can have a cup of chocolate. You and Ellen can set the table, Phil, while I get the soup ready.”

Mr. Austin swept the books and papers from the largest table, and laid some queer-looking mats upon it while Ellen went for the dishes. There were no two of these alike, and when it came time to serve the peaches the soup plates had to be washed, as there was nothing else in which to put them. However, they had a jolly meal and Ellen enjoyed the informality.

“It does so remind me of the old days,” she sighed.

“I thought it might, and that you would like it,” said Mr. Austin.

“But we don’t mean that you shall always eat in this higgledy-piggledy way,” declared Mrs. Austin.

“It’s fun, and I like it,” Ellen assured her.

The dishes were scarcely out of the way before visitors from the neighboring studios dropped in, and the familiar art patter began. One or more brought sketches which were set up and commented upon with much gesture of thumbs and heated discussion. Ellen listened to it all with glowing appreciation, and when the talk became an exchange of witticisms, she withdrew herself farther and farther away from the dull little town she had left. This was the life. Nobody had such good times as these care-free artists.

Later Mrs. Austin made chocolate and brought out the cakes and nougat, which were consumed to the uttermost crumb. There were not enough cups for the chocolate, but anything did,—tumblers, mugs, even two small pitchers,—and as for spoons, who wanted them when there were clean sticks of charcoal handy?

It was nearly midnight before the company dispersed, and then Ellen was put to bed on the couch, her coverings eked out by a Navajo blanket taken down from the wall, and she went to sleep with the moonlight streaming in through the skylight, picking out the gilt on the hilts of a pair of swords, and causing the glass eyes of a simpering lay figure to stare at her uncannily.

Mrs. Austin was in hiding behind the screen most of the next day, but she emerged in time to scramble together some sort of lunch made up of the odds and ends left over from the night before. Mr. Austin was out nearly all day, so Ellen, left to herself, sallied forth to hunt up some of her old friends. She was so late getting back that she found Mr. and Mrs. Austin waiting for her.

“We feared you were lost,” said Mrs. Austin. “We thought we’d go somewhere and get a light supper. Mr. Barstow is sure to have a big feast in the course of the evening, so we must save our appetites for that. Are you going to wear that dress, Ellen? If you are not, skurry into another one.”

“We should dress up, I suppose.”

“Oh, yes, this is a gala occasion. Put on your very flossiest.”

Ellen, eager to wear the white crêpe, lost no time in getting into it, and appeared promptly to exhibit herself to her hostess.

“What a lovely dress!” she exclaimed. “You look perfectly dear in it. Did you get it in Marshville?”

“Well, yes, I did and I didn’t. Do you know a Mary West, from Baltimore, Mrs. Austin?”

“Never heard of the lady. Who is she?”

“I don’t know, and thought perhaps you could tell me.” Then she related the tale of the mysterious box, giving Miss Rindy’s theory regarding the sender.

Mrs. Austin was interested at once. “Whoever she is, she has mighty good taste,” she declared. “I noticed what a swagger coat and hat you had as soon as I set my eyes on you, and that pretty wool dress you have been wearing is quite out of the common,—nothing you could pick up on a bargain counter. Come along, honey child, I am very proud of you. Phil is pacing the studio like a caged lion, so we’d better not tarry.”

They took their meal at a French pastry shop near by, and then went on to Mr. Barstow’s studio which was not far away. They found their host dancing around in great excitement. He was a little wiry man with a bald head, dark eyes, large nose, and humorous mouth. He grabbed Ellen’s hands and danced her across the floor to where a table was littered with paper and string.

“Come, help me tie up my presents,” he cried. “I haven’t them near ready. You come, too, Connie. Phil can amuse himself by tying them on the tree as we get them done. He is so tall we won’t need a stepladde............