Constance had sent a big box from London. There were fads and fripperies from Grace Clendenning in Paris, while Aunt Frances had evidently raided Fifth Avenue and had brought away its treasures. "It looks like a French shop," said Leila, happy in her own gifts of gloves and silk stockings and slipper buckles and beads, and the crowning bliss of a little pearl heart from Barry. Porter's offering to Mary was a quaint ring set with rose-cut diamonds and emeralds. Aunt Frances, hovering over it, exclaimed at its beauty. "It's a genuine antique?" He admitted that it was, but gave no further explanation. Later, however, he told Mary, "It was my grandmother's. She belonged to an old French family. My grandfather met her when he was in the diplomatic service. He was an Irishman, and it is from him I get my hair." "It's a lovely thing. But--Porter--it mustn't bind me to anything. I want to be free." "You are free. Do you remember when you were a kiddie that I gave you a penny ring out of my popcorn bag? You didn't think that ring tied you to anything, did you? Well, this is just another penny prize package." So she wore it on her right hand and when he said "Good-night," he lifted the hand and kissed it. "Girl, dear, may this be the merriest Christmas ever!" And now the tears overflowed. They were alone in the lower hall and there was no one to see. "Oh, Porter," she wailed, "I'm missing Constance dreadfully--it isn't Christmas--without her. It came over me all at once--when I was trying to think that I was happy." "Poor little Contrary Mary--if you'd only let me take care of you." She shook her head. "I didn't mean to be--silly, Porter." "You're not silly." Then after a silence, "Shall you go to early service in the morning?" "Yes." "May I go?" "Of course. Barry's going, too." "You mean that you won't let me go with you alone." "I mean nothing of the kind. Barry always goes. He used to do it to please mother, and now he does it--for remembrance." "I'm so jealous of my moments alone with you. Why can't Leila stay with you to-night, then there will be four of us, and I can have you to myself. I can bring the car, if you'd rather." "No, I like to walk. It's so lovely and solemn." "Be sure to ask Leila." She promised, and he went away, having to look in at a dance given by one of his mother's friends; and Mary, returning to join the others, pondered, a little wistfully, on the fact that Porter Bigelow should be so eager for a privilege which Roger Poole had just declined. CHAPTER VII _In Which Aunt Frances Speaks of Matrimony as a Fixed Institution and is Met by Flaming Arguments; and in Which a Strange Voice Sings Upon the Stairs._ Aunt Frances stayed until after the New Year. But before she went she sounded Aunt Isabelle. "Has Mary said anything to you about Porter Bigelow?" "About Porter?" "Yes," impatiently, "about marrying him. Anybody can see that he's dead in love with her, Isabelle."