, furs, books, and
other gifts showered upon her.

But there was no way out. She had to accept everything, and she had to
keep everything but the money. That she sent directly to Elsie Moss,
explaining that she couldn't possibly accept it, as it was especially
for her Christmas birthday. But Elsie Moss, probably with her friend's
recent request for the five hundred dollars in mind, sent it directly
back. Whereupon she wrote again, saying that she had more money than
she knew what to do with, and that she would be broken-hearted if Elsie
returned it a second time.

The letter in which Elsie Moss returned the money was written on the
very day when the girl had planned to write the letter announcing her
disappearance. It was only a short note, however, and contained
nothing of that nature. Her next letter, in which she reluctantly
agreed to accept half of the Christmas-birthday gift, was long and
surprising, but delightfully so rather than mysteriously or painfully.

Her Christmas had been quite as happy as that of the other Elsie.
Indeed, her greater capacity for blissful and ecstatic joy would have
rendered it even happier but for the valedictory character all its
details held secretly for her. Her youth and temperament, however,
which had carried her through the days following her momentous
decision, upheld her spirits even when she approached the brink of the
crisis. Her determination to right the wrong she had done at what she
believed the first possible moment had cleared her conscience so
completely that in the interim she had been able to enjoy the fruits of
that wrong-doing as never before since the very first.

She had herself made her gift for Cousin Julia and little things for
Miss Peacock and nearly everybody in the house. On Christmas Eve she
sang in the parlor for Miss Peacock, the servants, and those remaining
in the boarding-house over the holidays. First she went through the
carols. Then she sang the favorite song or songs of every one present,
including several of Miss Pritchard's. And though the programme was
haphazard it wasn't motley--only simple and old-fashioned and full of
sweetness and melody. The girl must have been dull indeed not to have
guessed something of the exquisite and genuine pleasure she gave.

In truth she lay long awake, thrilled by the remembrance. It had been
her swan-song, she told herself, half-tremulously, half-buoyed by the
excitement of it all. For she wa