rybody's got 'em. I s'pose it's a sign
that it's some Mis' Ordway's party too--only not enough hers to get her
name on the invite. Mebbe she chipped in on the expenses. Give a third,
like enough."

However that was, Friendship looked on the Christmas party as on some
unexpected door about to open in its path, and it woke in the morning
conscious of expectation before it could remember what to expect.
Proudfit House! A Christmas party! It touched every one as might some
giant Santa Claus, for grown-ups, with a pack of heart's-ease on his
back.

When Mrs. Ordway arrived in the village, the excitement mounted. Mrs.
Nita Ordway was the first exquisitely beautiful woman of the great world
whom Friendship had ever seen--"beautiful like in the pictures of when
noted folks was young," the village breathlessly summed her up. To be
sure, when she and her little daughter, Viola, rode out in the
Proudfits' motor, nobody in the street appeared to look at them. But
Friendship knew when they rode, and when they walked, and what they
wore, and when they returned.

It was a happiness to me to see Mrs. Ordway again, and I sat often with
her in the music room at Proudfit House and listened to her glorious
voice in just the songs that I love. Sometimes she would send for her
little Viola, so that I might sit with the child in my arms, for she was
one of those rare children who will let you love them.

"I like be made some 'tention to," Viola sometimes said shyly. She was
not afraid, and she would stay with me hour-long, as if she loved to be
loved. She was like a little come-a-purpose spirit, to let one pretend.

A day or two after the invitations had been received, I was in my guest
room going over my Christmas list. Just before Christmas I delight in
the look of a guest room, for then the bed is spread with a brave array
of pretty things, and when one arranges and wraps them, the stitches of
rose and blue on flowered fabrics, the flutter of crisp ribbons, and the
breath of sachets make one glad. I was lingering at my task when I heard
some one below, and I recognized her voice.

"Calliope!" I called gladly from the stairs, and bade her come up to me.

Calliope is one of the women in whose presence one can wrap one's
Christmas gifts. She came into the room, bringing a breath of Winter,
and she laid aside her tan ulster and her round straw hat, and
straightway sat down on the rug by the open fire.

"Well said!" she cried contented