“If you hadn’t come to the Fincherie,” she began, “I should have come to New York to ask you what to do with these people?” She held out some of the letters. He glanced at them. “Oh, managers will badger any one who has been a gold mine—that’s to be expected. I, myself, was to make a faint protest about too much retirement, but when Mrs. Santa Claus has been a real joy spreader, it isn’t fair to harass her, is it?” “None of you can bother me overly much. I’m resolved to sing just enough to make people always want me, and _live_ enough to be able to sing my best. There!” “May you follow that advice! But let’s talk about sentimental things. I always find myself slipping this time of the year.” He sat beside her. “Stoical dreamer! I’m just beginning to understand you.” “You didn’t give me a Christmas present.” “You didn’t give me one,” she began. But he drew a small box from his pocket and presented it. “Why, Bliss!” She was too pleased to conceal her delight. She opened it to find a locket of palest gold with a fine, shining chain. The locket yielded to the pressure of her thumb and within was space for some loved one’s face, while on the other side was made in bas relief an enamelled violet crown. “You think I—really—have—” she began. “I do, and I think I really want you to marry me,” he said very positively. “I don’t want you to answer by quoting a half mad woman’s request made to an untutored girl. Will you marry me, Thurley, battered old dreamer of nearly forty who hadn’t the courage to put into execution what he thought, who had to tell it to a gray angel who went and did? Will you?” “Let’s talk about Ernestine and Caleb’s new book; or Collin’s statue of Polly that is so marvellous, or Mark,—did you know he really is on the road to right? Let me tell about Dan, how invaluable he has become to every one in the town, saying just the right, ‘Steady, mates,’ to the boys up here, going on in his business, loving Lorraine a trifle harder than ever and keeping a weather eye out for town improvements. And did you hear about Hortense Quinby? She has killed herself—” “I can wait an additional ten minutes,” he conceded; “what about Hortense?” “The boy she fancied was in love with her married his own sweetheart without delay and Hortense ended it in a foolish, mad fashion! You know how she was—how such women are—” “Better out of the game,” Hobart commented grimly.