The Infant of Prague lay forgotten on the floor.
As midnight drew very near, the door of the studio was pushed softly open, and Helen came in, wearing a soft white wrapper; a lighted candle in her hand.
She placed the candle on a table; then, stooping, carefully lifted Ronnie's 'cello from the floor, laid it in its rosewood case, and stood looking down upon it. Then, smiling, touched its silver strings, with loving fingers.
"Poor Infant of Prague!" she said. "Has Ronnie forgotten even to put you to bed? Never mind! To-morrow you and he shall sing Christmas hymns together, while I and his little son listen and admire."
She closed the case. Then some impulse made her open it again. Her sweet eyes filled with tears. No one was there to see. Ronnie's wife knelt down and gently kissed the unconscious, shining face of the Infant of Prague.
Turning from the settee beneath the window, she saw herself reflected in the mirror—a tall fair figure in trailing garments, soft and white.
She held the candle high above her head, looked at her own reflection, and smiled.
She was glad she was so lovely—for Ronnie's sake.