“I have washed away my reproach,” cried Mr. Sylvester, coming out to the carriage with his arms full of bundles. “Aunt Belinda is to blame for this; she set the example, you see.” And with a merry laugh, he tossed one thing after another into Paula’s lap, reserving only one small package for himself. “I scarcely know what I have bought,” said he. “I shall be as much surprised as any one, when you come to undo the bundles. ‘A pretty thing,’ was all I waited to hear from the shop girls.” “There is a small printing press for one thing,” cried Paula merrily. “I saw the man at Holton’s eye you with a certain sort of shrewd humor, and hastily do it up. You paid for it; probably thinking it one of the ‘pretty things.’ We shall have to make it over to Bertram, as being the only one amongst us who by any stretch of imagination can be said to be near enough the age of boyhood to enjoy it.” “I do not know about that,” cried Bertram, with a ringing infectious laugh, “my imagination has been luring me into believing that I am not the only boy in this crowd.” And so they went on, toying with their new-found joy as with a plaything, and hard would it have been to tell in which of those voices rang the deeper contentment. The opening of the packages on the library-table afforded another season of merriment. Such treasures as came to light! A roll of black silk, which could only have been meant for Miss Belinda. A casket of fretted silver, just large enough to hold Paula’s gloves; a scarf-ring, to which no one but Bertram could lay claim; a bundle of confections, a pair of diamond-studded bracelets, a scarf of delicate lace, articles for the desk, and knick-knacks for the toilet table, and last, but not least, in weight at least, the honest little printing-press. “Oh, I never dreamed of this,” said Paula, “when we chose Christmas eve for our journey.” “Nor would you have done right to stay away if you had,” returned Mr. Sylvester gayly. But when the sport was all over, and Paula stood alone with Mr. Sylvester in the library, awaiting his last good-night, the deeper influences of this holy time made themselves felt, and it was with an air of gentle seriousness, he told her that it had been a happy Christmas eve to him. “And to me,” returned Paula. “Bertram too, seemed very happy. Would it be too inquisitive in me to ask what good news the little note contained, to work such wonders?” A smile such as was seldom seen on Mr. Sylvester’s face of late, flashed brightly over it. “It was only a card of invitation to dinner,” said he, “but it came from Mr. Stuyvesant, and that to Bertram means a great deal.” The surprise in Paula’s eyes made him smile again. “Will it be a great shock to you, if I tell you that the name of the woman for whom Bertram made the sacrifice of his art, was Cicely Stuyvesant?”