suddenly upon a forgotten playmate of his boyhood days.

"It--it can't be!" he reflected in startled interest. "It surely can't
be Madge Hildreth!"

But Madge Hildreth it surely was, spreading the satin folds of his
grandmother's crimson gown in mocking courtesy. Moreover it was not the
awkward, ragged elfish little gipsy who had tormented his debonair
boyhood with her shy ardent worship of himself and his daring exploits,
but instead a winsome vision of Christmas color and Christmas cheer,
holly-red of cheek, with flashes of scarlet holly in her night black
hair and eyes whose unfathomable dusk reflected no single hint of that
old, wild worship slumbering still in the girl's rebellious heart.

"And the symbolism of this stunning make-up?" queried Ralph after a
while, lazily admiring.

The girl's eyes flashed.

"To-night, if you please," she said, "I am the spirit of the
old-fashioned Christmas who dwells in the holly heart of the evergreen
wood. A _country_ Christmas, ruddy-cheeked and cheerful and rugged like
the winter holly--simple and old-fashioned and hallowed with memories
like this bright soft crimson gown!"

Well, she had been a queer, fanciful youngster too, Doctor Ralph
remembered, always passionately aquiver with a wild sylvan poetry and
over-fond of book-lore like her father. Mischievously glancing at a
spray of mistletoe above the girl's dark head, he stepped forward with
the careless gallantry that had won him many a kindly glance from pretty