o very shiny--like a black
looking-glass--that each felt as though he had on far more boots than
usual, and far noisier.

There was a wood fire, very small and very bright, on the hearth--neat
little logs laid on brass fire-dogs. Some portraits of powdered ladies
and gentlemen hung in oval frames on the pale walls. There were silver
candlesticks on the mantelpiece, and there were chairs and a table, very
slim and polite, with slender legs. The room was extremely bare, but
with a bright foreign bareness that was very cheerful, in an odd way of
its own. At the end of the polished table a very un-English little boy
sat on a footstool in a high-backed, uncomfortable-looking chair. He
wore black velvet, and the kind of collar--all frills and lacey--that
Robert would rather have died than wear; but then the little French boy
was much younger than Robert.

'Oh, how pretty!' said every one. But no one meant the little French
boy, with the velvety short knickerbockers and the velvety short hair.

What every one admired was a little, little Christmas-tree, very green,
and standing in a very red little flower-pot, and hung round with very
bright little things made of tinsel and coloured paper. There were tiny
candles on the tree, but they were not lighted yet.

'But yes--is it not that it is genteel?' said the lady. 'Sit down you
then, and let us see.'

The children sat down in a row on the stiff chairs against the wall, and
the lady lighted a long, slim red taper at the wood flame, and then she
drew the curtains and lit the little candles, and when they were all
lighted the little French boy suddenly shouted, 'Bravo, ma tante! Oh,
que c'est gentil,' and the English children shouted 'Hooray!'

Then there was a struggle in the breast of Robert, and out fluttered the
Phoenix--spread his gold wings, flew to the top of the Christmas-tree,
and perched there.

'Ah! catch it, then,' cried the lady; 'it will itself burn--your genteel
parrakeet!'

'It won't,' said Robert, 'thank you.'

And the little French boy clapped his clean and tidy hands; but the lady
was so anxious that the Phoenix fluttered down and walked up and down on
the shiny walnut-wood table.

'Is it that it talks?' asked the lady.

And the Phoenix replied in excellent French. It said, 'Parfaitement,
madame!'

'Oh, the pretty parrakeet,' said the lady. 'Can it say still of other
things?'

And the Phoenix replied, this time in English, 'Why are you sad so nea