Miss Susanna awoke on Christmas morning with the sound of fresh, young, tuneful voices in her delighted ears. Her door stood half open which explained why she could understand so clearly the quaint words of the old Irish carol which floated up to her on an harmonic tide from downstairs.
She was so raptly engaged in listening she neither heard Marjorie’s light step or saw her witching face framed for a brief second in the half-open doorway. Marjorie gleefully tiptoed down stairs to report the awakening of the Lady of the Arms.
“Let us sing Brooke Hamilton’s favorite, ‘God rest you merry, gentlemen,’ though it is one merry little lady who will get no more rest in bed this day,” Leila said drolly, after hearing Marjorie’s report.
“You should have seen her! She was sitting straight up in bed, looking so happy, and as though she was loving the music. After we sing this carol, I’ll take her breakfast up to her. After breakfast we’ll escort her downstairs to see our tree and—”
“You can’t lose me,” remarked a matter-of-fact voice from the doorway. Miss Susanna trotted toward the group at the piano, looking smaller than ever in her warm, blue eider down dressing gown.
“So we notice,” laughed Vera.
“And I notice you have been booning, as the Irish say, with Jeremiah Macy,” was Leila’s sly comment. “Such slang!”
“Something like that,” impishly returned Miss Susanna. She showed marked enjoyment of her own lapse into slang.
“What is your pleasure first, Lady of the Arms?” Marjorie inquired, as she led Miss Susanna to a brocade chaise lounge, the nearest seat to a gorgeous heavily-laden Christmas tree.
“Sing me his favorite carol.” Miss Susanna gently tweaked one of Marjorie’s brown curls. To please the girls she had allowed her curls to hang, decorated by a pale pink satin topknot bow, which matched her pale pink negligee.