"And I," said Margaret, with a little sigh, "shall return to Cologne next month; I, too, shall miss Cherry Street, but nothing shall sadden me now that Billy is well."
"I have a lump in my throat as I dwell upon the inevitableness of human destiny," said Theodore. "But honestly, Lindsay, we shall miss you. As for you, Margaret,
"Maid of Col-ogne, ere we part,
Give, O give me back my heart."
"You gave it to Marie Jean the night of the lawn social," rejoined Margaret promptly. "I didn't want it, you know,—it was so warm and sticky."
"And I didn't know what to do with it, so I ate it," said Marie Jean, with a giggle. "I remember it was flavoured with peppermint."
"Cannibal!" murmured Theodore,—and lapsed into injured silence.
Beatrice and Francis had returned to the holly wreaths. "We shall be sorry to have you go," she said, her eyes on the branches in her lap. "What you said about Cherry Street made me want to cry. I, certainly, in the past, have not been a part of the goodness and brightness and helpfulness. Before you go, let me tell you I am sorry for everything."
"And I am glad." He took from her lap as he spoke a bit of the holly and broke it in two. "Keep this," he said, "and I shall keep the other half, 'sweet summer memories to recall,'—till I come again."
Christmas eve fell softly upon Cherry Street wrapped in its snowy mantle, with a pale silver moon like a crescent of promise, shining low down in the west.