“Oh, no, my dear,” Roma hastened to say; “though if you had touched the timbre on your stand, you would have waked me, and I could have done it all for you and saved you the fatigue of pushing yourself about the room.” “Oh, it did not tire me—not at all. Oh, this chair! I don’t believe that even you, who bought it for me, know half its merits. I said it was bed and chair and carriage to me. It is more than that. It is legs! I can go where I please about the room with just the lightest little push on this little knob. See!” And the invalid wheeled herself around the room and back again to her stand. “I see,” said Roma; “it works easily, and you are so much stronger.” “Oh, ever so much stronger and better. I shall soon get well now. Thanks to you, dear friend. But I should never have got better if you had not brought me out of that miserable room, where the only choice I had was between sitting in the bitter cold or having a smoking fire in the wretched little iron stove, and I think the smoke was worse than the cold. And then that straight-backed little chair! And the diet of bread and tea, that was always cold before it reached me! Ah, I was dying of discomfort more than of a cough when you found and rescued me. And now, in this lovely room, in this lovely chair, and with the clean, soft steam heat, and all the good things you give me to eat day and night, and, above all, you yourself! You are always breathing the breath of life over me—if it is not a sin to say it. And I shall soon be well and strong. And, oh! may the Lord open some way for me to show my love and gratitude to you! I have not talked so much as this since the day I was taken down sick,” she concluded, with a smile. “No, dear, you have not, nor do I think it wise in you to tax your strength in doing so now,” said Roma. But the invalid was in a talking mood. “When I woke up this morning, the first thing I saw was Owlet’s mask and dress, and I knew she had got home safe,” she said. “Oh, yes! and she was in bed long before several other children of the house who were dancing; and Mr. Merritt thinks she was happier than them all,” said Roma. While they talked together, little Owlet suddenly appeared before them, ready dressed for breakfast. She had risen in her quiet way and made her simple toilet silently. Then Roma produced her Christmas presents, a lovely wadded silk dressing gown for Madame Marguerite, and a workbox, completely fitted, for Owlet. Both were delighted, and declared—what all people declare to the giver of Christmas gifts—that the present was just exactly what the receiver most wanted. “I am glad you didn’t give me a doll,” said Owlet. “Why?” inquired Roma, with a smile. “I don’t like dolls.” “But why?” “Because they are not alive.” “Oh! But neither are workboxes alive,” said Roma, smiling. “But workboxes don’t look as if they are alive, and dolls do. Besides, workboxes are so useful, and dolls are of no use on the face of the earth.”