About a week before Christmas his mother came back, and Michael was happy. All the rooms that were only used when she was at home changed from bare beeswaxed deserts to places of perfect comfort, so rosy were the lamp-shades, so sweet was the smell of flowers and so soft and lovely were his mother’s scattered belongings. Christmas Day brought presents—a box of stone bricks, a rocking-horse, a doll’s house for Stella, boxes of soldiers, a wooden battleship, and books—Hans Andersen and Grimm and the Old French Fairy-tales. As for the stockings that year, it was amazing how much managed to get into one stocking and how deliciously heavy it felt, as it was unhooked from the end of the cot and plumped down upon the bed in the gaslight of Christmas morning. There was only one sadness that hung over the festivities—the thought that his mother would be going away in two days. Boxing Day arrived and there were ominous open trunks and the scattered contents of drawers. To-morrow she was going. It was dreadful to think of. Michael was allowed the bitter joy of helping his mother to pack, and as he stood seriously holding various articles preparatory to their entombment, he talked of the summer and heard promises that mother would spend a long long time with Michael. “Mother,” he said suddenly, “what is my father?” “What makes you ask that?” “The boys at Miss Marrow’s all ask me that. Have I got a father? Must boys have fathers? Oh, mother, do tell me,” pleaded Michael. Mrs. Fane seemed worried by this question. “Your father was a gentleman,” she said at last. “What is a gentleman?” “A good man, always thoughtful and considerate to others.” “Was that man in the photograph my father?” “What photograph?” Mrs. Fane parried. “By your bed at the seaside?” “I don’t remember,” she said, “Anyway, your father’s dead.” “Is he? Poor man!” said sympathetic Michael. “And now run to Nanny and ask her if she remembers where mother put her large muff.” “Nanny,” said Michael, when he had received Nurse’s information, “why did my father die?” “Die? Die? What questions. Tut-tut! Whatever next?” And Nurse blew very violently to show how deeply she disapproved of Michael’s inquisitiveness. That evening, just when Michael was going to bed, there came a knock at the door, and a tall fair man was shown into the drawing-room. “How d’ye do, Mrs. Fane? I’ve come to ask you if you’ll go to the theatre to-night. Saxby is coming on later.” “Oh, thank you very much, Mr. Prescott, but I really think I must stay in. You see,” she said smilingly, “it’s Michael’s last night of me for a long time.” Michael stood gazing at Mr. Prescott, hating him with all his might and sighing relief at his mother’s refusal to go out. “Oh, Michael won’t mind; will you, Michael?” Nurse came in saying ‘Bed-time! Tut-tut-tut! Bed-time!’ and Michael’s heart sank. “There you are,” said Mr. Prescott. “Here’s Nurse to say it’s bed-time. Now do come, Mrs. Fane.”