“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.”