"... Yes'm," said Flame.
But it was a very frankly disconsolate little girl who stole late that night to her Father's study, and perched herself high on the arm of his chair with her cheek snuggled close to his.
"Of Father-Funny," whispered Flame, "I've got such a queer little pain."
"A pain?" jerked her Father. "Oh dear me! Where is it? Go and find your Mother at once!"
"Mother?" frowned Flame. "Oh it isn't that kind of a pain.—It's in my Christmas. I've got such a sad little pain in my Christmas."
"Oh dear me—dear me!" sighed her Father. Like two people most precipitously smitten with shyness they sat for a moment staring blankly around the room at every conceivable object except each other. Then quite suddenly they looked back at each other and smiled.
"Father," said Flame. "You're not of course a very old man.... But still you are pretty old, aren't you? You've seen a whole lot of Christmasses, I mean?"
"Yes," conceded her Father.
From the great clumsy rolling collar of her blanket wrapper Flame's little face loomed suddenly very pink and earnest.
"But Father," urged Flame. "Did you ever in your whole life spend a Christmas just exactly the way you wanted to? Honest-to-Santa Claus now,—did you ever?"