The Christmas Rose thought she was in Fairyland. The room was decorated with festoons of evergreens, wreaths of holly, and bunches of mistletoe. On the platform was a small Christmas tree hung with sweets, crackers, silver ornaments, and coloured beads, surmounted by a fairy doll dressed in white and studded with silver stars. Marietta stood gazing round the studio, holding the trembling Rose in her hand. But what was this? The Fairy Prince off the tree come to life? They had never seen anything so fair before. A boy had risen from a seat by the stove, where he had been amusing himself with a picture book. A slim little fellow, with dreamy, hazel eyes set in a pale spiritual face, and what wonderful hair. It was like golden sunbeams. Angel was the artist's son. His mother had died two years ago. He was just six years old, a sweet, delicate child. Often he was very lonely, for his father was frequently away, and he was not strong enough to go to school. [Illustration] How much he missed his mother, and how the memory of her dwelt in his young soul, even his father scarcely guessed. At night he cried himself to sleep thinking of her, and wondering where she was. It had occurred to the child that she had not been very happy, and that his father did not love her as he did. "I have been watching for you," said Angel, putting out his small hand. "Oh, what a pretty flower! I have never seen one like it before." "It is a Christmas Rose, dear," said Thornhill, who had entered as the boy spoke. Marietta placed it in his hair. He looked at her gravely, and then held up his face to be kissed. The Christmas Rose nearly swooned with joy, for she thought that Angel was the Infant Jesus; and as she was set in the place of honour amongst that golden glory, her heart throbbed with gratitude. Edward Thornhill had been accustomed to the society of pretty women all his life; but in the presence of this convent girl he was absolutely nervous. Her beauty fascinated him. He longed to take his brush, to portray that face on canvas. Marietta was shy to a fault, and it was a long time before he could get anything excepting monosyllables from her in conversation. Christmas dinner was served in another part of the studio. It was not a very grand one. The absence of a woman's hand in the household arrangements had been keenly felt by the artist since his wife's death. But there was a piece of roast beef and a plum-pudding, with dates, apples, and oranges to follow. The two Italians had eaten nothing but a little bread for two days, so to them it was a feast for the Gods. Later the tree was stripped of its ornaments. Angel pressed nearly all the presents on Rica. He was a kind-hearted little fellow, and very unselfish. "And so you are going to be a nun, my child?" said the artist, when by sympathetic questioning he had elicited Marietta's story. "Yes, sir." "Do you think you will be happy?" "Yes, sir."