"There was one thing that I haven't had the courage to tell you about yet." She blurted the rest in a gulped staccato: "With me it was absolutely the last straw. And I'm ashamed of myself. But my heart was so set on the singing! That's my only excuse for being so weak." "Go on. I'm listening." "Well, you know yourself, Clem, how hard I've worked at drilling those eight men and boys for my Christmas carols? And how I've explained to them over and over again about the meanings of all those beautiful Old World customs such as the English have? And I thought they'd caught the spirit--from the very first they seemed so inspired. But tonight--just a little while ago when you were busy with the tree--they took me aside. They said they wanted to tell me something. And Clem--they--they struck!" "Struck for what?" "For money. Said they wouldn't sing a note unless I paid them for their back time." "And what did you do?" "I paid them," she confessed. "Five dollars apiece. That is, all but the leader. He--he got ten." Mr. Bugbee made no comment on this disclosure. But his silence fairly screamed at her. "Wipe your feet before you come into the house," he said. He kicked the muddied snow off his boots and opened the door. They entered where efforts had been made to create a showing of holiday cheer. There were greens about and a sprig of synthetic mistletoe dangled above the lintel, and on the mantel was a composition statuette of good Saint Nicholas, rotund and rosy and smiling a painted smile. In the act of crossing the threshold they were aware of the presence of a visitor. Very rigidly and rather with the air of being peevish for some reason, a lantern-jawed person stood in the middle of the floor. "Oh," said Mrs. Bugbee advancing to make the stranger welcome. "How do you do? It's Mr. Sisson, isn't it? My husband told me you were coming." "He said eleven o'clock." Mr. Sisson's voice was condemnatory. "It's nearly twenty past." "I'm so sorry--we are a trifle late, aren't we? Detained down in the Cove, you know." "Personally I alluz make it a point to be on time, myself." Mr. Sisson accepted the outstretched hand of his hostess and shook it stiffly but he did not unbend. He aimed a sternly interrogative glance at Mr. Bugbee: "Whut business did you want to have with me?" "No business," explained that gentleman. "Pleasure, I hope. We asked you here so that we might wish you a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year." "And to offer you a small remembrance," supplemented Mrs. Bugbee. "And here it is--with our very best compliments." She took from a side table a longish, roundish parcel enclosed in white tissue with ribbon bindings and a bit of imitation holly caught in the bow-knot at the top. She put it in his somewhat limp grasp. Immediately though, his clutch on the object tightened. He fingered its contours. "Feels to me sort of like a bottle," he opined. "It is," said the jovial Mr. Bugbee. "Open it and see."