It was the day before Christmas. For eight weeks Margaret had been at Elmhurst, Miss Dole's school in the Berkshires. School--Miss Dole's school--had been something of a surprise to Margaret; and Margaret had been decidedly a surprise to the school. Margaret was not used to young misses who fared sumptuously every day, and who yet complained because a favorite ice cream or a pet kind of cake was not always forthcoming; and Miss Dole's pupils were not used to a little girl who questioned their right to be well-fed and well-clothed, and who supplemented this questioning with distressing stories of other little girls who had little to wear and less to eat day after day, and week after week. Margaret had not gone to Elmhurst without a struggle on the part of her mother. To Mrs. Kendall it seemed cruel to be separated so soon from the little daughter who had but just been restored to her hungry arms after four long years of almost hopeless waiting. On the other hand, there were Margaret's own interests to be thought of. School, certainly, was a necessity, unless there should be a governess at home; and of this last Mrs. Kendall did not approve. She particularly wished Margaret to have the companionship of happy, well-bred girls of her own age. The Houghtonsville public school was hardly the place, in Mrs. Kendall's opinion, for a little maid with Margaret's somewhat peculiar ideas as to matters and things. There was Bobby, too--Bobby, the constant reminder in word and deed of the city streets and misery that Mrs. Kendall particularly wished forgotten. Yes, there certainly was Bobby to be thought of--and to be avoided. It was because of all this, therefore, that Margaret had been sent to Elmhurst. She had gone there straight from the great hotel in the mountains, where she and her mother had been spending a few weeks; so she had not seen Houghtonsville since September. It was the Christmas vacation now, and she was going back--back to the house with the stone lions and the big play room where had lain for so long the little woolly dog of her babyhood. It was not of the stone lions, nor the play room that Margaret was thinking, however; it was of something much more important and more--delightful, the girls said. At all events, it was wonderfully exciting, and promised all sorts of charming possibilities in the way of music, pretty clothes, and good things to eat--again according to the girls. It was a wedding. Margaret's idea of marriage had undergone a decided change in the last few weeks. The envious delight of the girls over the fact that she was to be so intimately connected with a wedding, together with their absorbing interest in every detail, had been far more convincing than all of Mrs. Kendall's anxious teachings: marriage might not be such a calamity, after all.