“Oh, no! I do hope—but ‘hope deferred maketh the heart sick.’ No news comes,” sighed Roma. “The young man may have been smuggled on board some outbound ship—may be across the ocean by this time!” “What makes you think so?” “I do not exactly think so. I only throw out the idea on speculation, as a possible explanation of the failure of all our plans to discover him! Well, my dear, I must be going now! It is twenty minutes past one. I suppose the people in this house mean to keep it up all night. To-morrow I shall come and give you a report of to-night’s work—‘To-morrow?’ It is to-morrow now!—Christmas is more than an hour old!” said the lawyer, as he arose and carefully laid the sleeping child on the sofa. “We made a great many people happy to-night, but the happiest of all was little Owlet! There are children’s parties in the mansions of the rich everywhere, but I doubt if any among them enjoyed themselves as little Owlet did to-night. She has gone to sleep, tired out with a surfeit of happiness. Good-evening, my dear,” he said, warmly pressing Roma’s hand. “Come, boy!” he added, shaking up the dozing Tom, who, Virginia negro fashion, had dropped himself down on the floor and gone to sleep. When the two had left the room, Roma knelt down by the sofa, and began to undress the child softly and deftly, so as not to awaken her if it were possible to avoid doing so. Mr. Merritt had already taken off her mask, and the removal of her other disguises was comparatively easy. But as Roma rolled her gently over, stealing, as it were, her clothing off her, the child partly awoke, and murmured in her sleep: “Oh, you dear little baby—here’s—a dolly for you, and—candy and——” She dropped into deeper sleep with the words on her lips. Roma put the child in her own bed. Then she looked at Marguerite, and saw that she was sleeping well, with ice water, milk and all else within reach that she might want during the remainder of the night. Then at length Roma herself went to bed and to sleep, and slept soundly, notwithstanding the loud revelry that was going on over her head and under her feet, and on the opposite side of the hall. Late as was the hour when she retired, she awoke quite refreshed at her usual time—seven o’clock in the morning. Her little bedfellow was still sound asleep, living over in dreams the happiest ride and night she had ever had in her little life. Roma covered the sleeping face with a thin handkerchief, and then opened the windows to air the room and passed into the parlor. Her protégée, Marguerite Nouvellini, was not only awake, but sitting up in her adjustable chair, with a breakfast tray before her. “I was so hungry when I woke up that I wheeled myself in reach of the bell, and rang and ordered breakfast. Did you care?” she inquired, seeing Roma’s surprised look.