“No.” “Wait a moment till I come up.” “They’ve been doing that for two mortal hours,” said Mrs. Malcolm placidly. “They have miles of wire trying to attach something—don’t ask me what, for I haven’t the faintest idea. Of course it won’t work; engines never do; if they did all the occupation would be gone. My husband is just as bad as the rest. They all have engines at home, but they say Violet’s beats the lot. Just hear that child laugh; she’s been up there all the afternoon. We’ve been having the most beautifully restful time down here by ourselves. I haven’t seen father look so happy in months, and in all that clatter! _Did_ you hear that Kate is coming back?” “Will you listen to that!” said Mrs. Walter. The inevitable footsteps were clattering again madly down-stairs, with the accompanying voice: “Will it work?” “No.” “Oh, I guess I see what’s the matter with it this time. Will it work now?” “No.” “Wait till I come up!” The end of a holiday is the dearest part of a happy one, when the jewels are counted over, to be strung on the silver thread of memory. The lights were turned down low in the nursery, so that the flames of the fire of aromatic pine were reflected rosily from the white surface of the enamelled furniture, as Violet sat there in her loose blue gown, her reddish hair half curling over her shoulders, rocking her little son with his head pressed against her white bosom. After all the merry Christmas Day, after all the clatter, and jollity, and family chatter, the supper, the plum pudding, and the lighted candles, and the children’s carols of the Child Divine, she was back here once more with her little, little son—the life that was mysteriously her life too. Ah, not because of the feasting and the presents, nor the merry companionship, not all because of the inspiring engine even, had the day been Christmas indeed to an old man and those who felt the sweetness, unknowing. Through Violet’s happiness had come the Angel Note. The drum hung upon the wall, and set out on the blue rug was a small farmyard of animals, with the large white woolly sheep and a brown tin cow on wheels, towering above them. On the table stood a tiny Christmas tree, decked with a red, a blue and a yellow candle, a little horse, a little horn, a candy hen and a glittering star, and on the mantel was a paper angel in white and tinsel with dovelike wings and floating hair. Violet’s husband coming through the room put his hand tenderly on her hair as he passed. “Little mother!” he said. She leaned her head back against his hand, her eyes mutely acknowledging his caress, before she withdrew once more into that holy place where she lived to-night with the child, and where even the man she loved could not follow her. The Name of The Firm The Name of The Firm “So you’ve lost your place,” said his mother.