Peggy smiling, sleepy, and with the satisfying consciousness that everything had turned out just as she had hoped, was ready to go upstairs to bed, when the telephone bell rang. A sweet voice, with a plaintive undertone, spoke her name. "Is this Peggy Raymond?" "Yes, this is Peggy. But I’m afraid I don’t recognize your voice." "It’s a little late to wish you a Merry Christmas, I’m afraid. But I couldn’t let the day close without good wishes of some sort. May the new year bring you all the happiness you deserve. I don’t think I could wish you anything better than that." There was an earnestness in the strange voice that went to Peggy’s heart. "Thank you ever so much," she answered gratefully. "But I’m sure that every year, so far, has brought me lots of happiness I didn’t deserve at all. It’s queer," she added, changing the subject hastily, "But I can’t seem to think who you are." "A girl who does as much as you do to make other people happy," the strange voice persisted, "deserves the best of everything. Good-night, Peggy, dear." "But who--" Peggy was beginning, when a little click told her that her question, if completed, would fall on the empty air. She hung up the receiver, perplexed and as near disappointed as was possible at the close of so perfect a day. "Why didn’t she say who she was?" Peggy asked herself. "It seems as if I ought to remember a voice so sweet, but it didn’t sound a bit familiar." She paused at the door of the parlor to take a last look at the denuded Christmas tree, and the table where the gifts were still displayed, for the benefit of friends who might drop in within a day or two, and went slowly to her room. But in her dreams, she heard again and again a gentle voice, pensive and sweet, whispering, "A happy new year to dear Peggy Raymond." *CHAPTER XIV* *A DISAGREEMENT* It was a doleful Peggy who, coming home late one drizzly January afternoon, found the gas lighted in the living-room and Ruth waiting for her. Peggy acknowledged her friend’s presence by a rueful smile, immediately extinguished by an unseasonable shower, as sudden as an April rain. "There! There! Don’t cry, Peggy. I know exactly how you feel." Ruth administered consolation in the shape of sundry comforting pats, while Peggy burrowed in the sofa cushions and sniffed without restraint. "It’s dreadful to have them both go at once," she explained in a stifled voice. "Of course it is." "I suppose I ought to be glad that Alice is well enough to have Dorothy home again. She must have missed her every minute. I know I shall." A sob. "Nobody could help it. Such a darling child!" "Of course she can’t travel by herself, and mother was hankering to see Alice, and, besides, she needed a rest. I’m a perfect goose, so there!" Peggy sat up, wiping her eyes with a severity that might have been intended to warn them against repeating their late indiscretion.