"Well then"--and the declaration of independence rang out--"I won't!" "What!" Brown Betty leaped under the lash. "It don't belong to me." "Do you know who owns it?" "I can--guess." "Guess then, by thunder!" "It--belonged--to--Joyce's poor little dead young-un." "How in"--then Tate blanched, for superstition held his dull wits. "How you 'spose it got there?" "How can I tell, Tate? But I'll ask Joyce, to-morrer." With that Leon had to be content. The feast began at five. Long, long did the youth of St. Ange recall it with fulness of heart and stomach. Yearningly did St. Ange womankind hark back to it. It was the first time in their lives that they had not prepared, and were not expected themselves to serve, a meal. They forgot, in the rapture of repose, their new and splendid gowns--the comfort wrapped their every sense. "I was borned," poor Peggy confided to her neighbour, "to be a constitootional setter, I think; but circumstances prevented. It's curious enough how naterally I take the chance to set and set and enjoy setting." Mrs. Murphy smoothed her dark-green cashmere with reverent and caressing hand. "There's more than you, Mis' Falster," she said, "as is borned to what they don't get, sure! Now me, fur instant, I find it easier nor what you might think, to chew without my front teeth." This made Billy Falstar laugh. It was the first genuine laugh the poor boy had had for many an hour. Constance Drew heard it, and it did her heart good. For Billy, pale, wide-eyed and laughless, was not in the order of things as they should be. She looked at Ruth Dale and whispered, "Billy is reviving with proper nourishment." Ruth gave her a sympathetic smile. Ruth was, herself, working under pressure, but she was successfully playing her part. "His face was the only grim one here," she said. "Just look at Maggie, Con!" To view Maggie was to forget any unpleasant thing. Maggie Falstar was laying up for the future as a camel does for the desert. Food and drink passed from sight under Maggie's manipulation like a slight-of-hand performance, and through the effort, and above it, the girl's expressionless face was bent over her plate. The Christmas tree, later, was in the hall. The party staggered to it from the dining room with anticipation befogged by a too, too heavy meal. But St. Ange digestions were of sturdy fibre, and fulfilled joy brought about quick relief. Aunt Sally looked into the grateful eyes upturned toward the glittering tree, and her own kind eyes were like stars. It was Ruth Dale who had taught the children to sing, "There's a Wonderful Tree," and the Christmas anthem now surprised and charmed the older people.