"Well, if I must, I suppose I must. I'll be down
before long."
She turned to her closet and took down a dark red gown which had just
come home from the dressmaker. It was the most becoming gown she had ever
owned, and Phebe was quite aware of the fact. She laid it on the bed and
stood looking at it for a minute or two. Then she shut her lips
resolutely, hung it up again, picked a loose thread or two from the plain
blue gown she wore, and marched down the stairs.
Mr. Barrett rose to greet her, as she came stalking into the room. His
manner was boyishly eager, his eyes brimming with mischief, as he took
her hand and then offered her a small round package wrapped in dainty
blue papers.
"Merry Christmas, Miss McAlister! Wasn't it too bad of the snow to spoil
our drive?"
"I like a white Christmas," Phebe said perversely. "What's this?"
"A little offering for the season's greeting," he said, laughing. "It is
really only a case of returning your own to you."
She took the package in her hands, and, as her fingers closed over it,
she began to laugh in her turn.
"Oh, it's my skull," she said. "I'm so glad to have it again. I shall
want it when I go back to Philadelphia."
His face fell.
"I thought you weren't going back."
"Of course I shall go back."
"But if you are homesick?"
"I shall get over it.
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