with madame.

Going slowly up to her room, she curled up in the window-seat to wait
for the sound of the carriage wheels. The blue parrots on the wall-paper
sat in their blue hoops in straight rows from floor to ceiling, and hung
all their dismal heads. It seemed to Joyce as if there were thousands of
them, and that each one was more unhappy than any of the others. The
blue roses on the bed-curtains, that had been in such gay blossom a few
hours before, looked ugly and unnatural now.

Over the mantel hung a picture that had been a pleasure to Joyce ever
since she had taken up her abode in this quaint blue room. It was called
"A Message from Noel," and showed an angel flying down with gifts to
fill a pair of little wooden shoes that some child had put out on a
window-sill below. When madame had explained that the little French
children put out their shoes for Saint Noel to fill, instead of hanging
stockings for Santa Claus, Joyce had been so charmed with the picture
that she declared that she intended to follow the French custom herself,
this year.

Now, even the picture looked different, since she had lost her joyful
anticipations of Christmas. "It is all No-el to me now," she sobbed. "No
tree, no Santa Claus, and now, since the money must go to pay for the
goats' mischief, no presents for anybody in the dear little brown house
at home,--not even mamma and the baby!"

A big salty tear trickled down the side of Joyce's nose and splashed on
her hand; then another one. It was such a gloomy ending for her happy
Thanksgiving Day. One consoling thought came to her in time to stop the
deluge that threatened. "Anyway, Jules has had a good time for once in
his life." The thought cheered her so much that, when Marie came in to
light the lamps, Joyce was walking up and down the room with her hands
behind her back, singing.

As soon as she was dressed for dinner she went down-stairs, but found no
one in the drawing-room. A small fire burned cozily on the hearth, for
the November nights were growing chilly. Joyce picked up a book and
tried to read, but found herself looking towards the door fully as
often as at the page before her. Presently she set her teeth together
and swallowed hard, for there was a rustling in the hall. The portiere
was pushed aside and madame swept into the room in a dinner-gown of dark
red velvet.

To Joyce's waiting eyes she seemed more imposing, more elegant, and more
unapproachable than she had ever