Oh! How kind they had all been. She could not spare one of them. She blew out the light, and the pulsing of the stars seemed to find an echo in the pulsing of her heart. Suddenly she leant out to stretch her warm young hands into the frosty air, over the flower graves in the garden, over the whole wide glistening world. "A Happy New Year to you all, dear people," she whispered. "Such a Happy New Year!" Five minutes after, having smiled drowsily at the sound of Martha's stealthy footsteps outside her door, she was asleep, to wake again, however, as the birds wake in winter, long before the lingering dawn. The moon was hanging like a silver shield before the window and sent a flood of light into the room, but far away in the east on the edge of the hill there was just that faint paling of the sky which tells that when the sun rises it will rise there. Dawn or no dawn she was broad awake, and the next instant stood by her open door. There was the stocking, crammed full, as Ned had threatened, with chocolate creams, and a pile of parcels on the floor. She picked them up, and putting them in the warm nest she had just left, began to undo them by the light of the moon. What had they given her, these kind people? A white chiffon motor veil! That must be from Mrs. Tressilian, who had raised an outcry against a scarf of Mechlin being used to such shallow purpose. A silver ring tray, set round with every conceivable coin of the realm! She did not need the card slipped into the red morocco case to tell her this was from Mr. Hirsch. A book--her heart gave an answering throb to the starshine--was from Ted. He had promised her a Shelley. And this, what was it? It must be the semi-surgical instrument for pruning roses, of which Dr. Ramsay had told her. And that was all, for neither Martha nor her grandfather would give in to stockings. Yes, it was all. Another half-ashamed feel over the darkling floor of the passage assured her of this, and she turned to the Shelley. Even if Ned had considered the chocolate creams sufficient, she had this. Now she could read the context to the lines which Ned--yes! it was Ned--had quoted: 'Time like a many--coloured glass Stains the white radiance of eternity.' It was lighter at the window, she passed to it, and leaning the heavy volume on the sill, knelt down to search for the "Adonais." But she turned no pages. For there, outside on the window-ledge, broad-faced, clear, open-eyed, an _iris alata_ stared up at her from its carpet of saxifrage. "_The most beautiful thing!_" Yes! that was it--and _he_ had given it to _her_ ... The poetry which another man had written slipped to the floor unheeded. She was absorbed in what this man had brought her. She knelt quite still for a time, her hands slightly clasped, feeling dazed at something in herself which responded--which gave back--what? What was the over-mastering desire to crush the unconscious flower to death with her kisses.