"You can't," rejoined his wife. "You'll have to think of something."
"Perhaps," suggested the gentleman foolishly, "an angel might be induced to come down from heaven...."
But his words were truer than he thought; a figure which had been creeping unobserved down the stairs now stood before them.
"Auguste!" gasped Mrs. Livermore, with an almost superstitious start.
"Yes, Madame," replied her former servant, while his benignant smile brought reassurance; "it is I. I have taken ze liberty of dropping in to wish Madame a merry Christmas."
"Thank Heaven!" cried the Hostess, restraining her impulse to fall upon his neck. "Now you must stay and help us out of our difficulties. You know exactly where all the silver is."
"Perfectly," replied the man respectfully, "and it will give me great pleasure to once more serve Madame."
"Auguste," said Mr. Livermore, "let bygones be forgotten. Go quickly and set the table, and put on everything to make it look attractive."
"Pardon, Monsieur," Auguste protested, "might it not seem out of place to display too much silver at such a simple meal?"
"He is right," declared Mrs. Livermore, "Auguste is right. His taste was always perfect—even in champagne."