The glow from the fire which ruddied his face revealed the struggle of the minute before decision came. With an expression curiously mingled of renunciation and relief he tossed the paper among the glowing embers. He rose as the sheet took fire and in the brief flash of light which marked the consumption of the telegram he saw a familiar-looking package on the library table in the shadow cast by his big chair. He carried it to the now fainter glow of the hearth and saw that it was addressed to him in Deane's trim hand. He opened it eagerly, to see what form her remembrance had taken. It was the fox-skin, returned. Vague, trouble-eyed, he read the inclosed note. DEAR DICK:-- I am sending you back your present. Father insists, because you secured it on Sunday. It hurts me, Dick, dreadfully, but you know how he feels about such things. It is the loveliest present I ever received--and it makes me want to cry, sometimes, when I think of your doing such things for me and thinking about me as you do. I _AM_ crying, now, Dick. Though I can not have it, your present will always be mine--I can never forget that you were good enough to wish me to have it. And will you accept my very best wishes that your Christmas may be a very merry one. DEANE. He sank back into the chair again, sickened.... "That your Christmas may be a very merry one." * * * * * Susan, first down in the morning, raised the curtains to the brilliant Christmas morning, and turned to find him sitting in the chilled room before the dead fire. Shocked by the haggard face, she hurried to him. "Dick, are you sick?" As she sank by the side of his chair her hand brushed against the rich fur which lay across his knees, and she understood. She placed a pitying arm about his shoulders. "I feared it, Dick--I feared it! You know how he is--her father. I'll never speak to him again as long as--" She burst into tears. Gently he withdrew her arm and took her hand in his. "It's all right, Sue, it's--all--right." Through her tears she read the pain that lurked in his eyes, the agony that betrayed the patient smile. She sobbed convulsively, heartsick in her helplessness to ease this young brother to whom she had been half mother. "That's what you always say--about everything: 'it will be all right.' When you were a boy it was always the same--'it's all right.'" He comforted her with quiet words till the storm abated. Then, "I'm going to miss you, Sue-sister," he said. She stood up, comprehension dawning in her wide eyes. "You're going away!" He nodded gravely. Slowly, fearfully, she asked, "When?" "To-night." "Way off to--those--Philippines?" He nodded, then unable to bear longer the hurt in her tremulous face, he sought refuge in the ridiculous; he struck an attitude.