"My dear," said the great musician, "you may come and live with us, both you and Cordie, live with us forever."

"Cordie, your turn to be questioned," said Laurie.

"Oh!" exclaimed Cordie, throwing her arms about Lucile and hiding her face in the folds of her dress. "I don't want you to ask me questions. I don't! I don't! I just want to confess how mean I have been and what an unkind trick I have played on you."

"Why Cordie!" Lucile consoled her. "You've not been mean to me at all.

You--you've been the dearest kind of a little pal!"

"Oh, yes I have! I let you think I was a poor little girl from the country, when I wasn't at all. I allowed you to spend money on me and pay all the room rent when I just knew you thought you were going to have to live on milk toast all next term of school. And I never even offered to do my share at all.

"But if you only knew," she raced on, "how good it seemed to have one friend who wasn't one bit selfish, who didn't want a lot of things for herself and who was willing to do things for other people when she really needed just plain ordinary things for herself. If you only knew! If you only did!" Cordie's voice rose shrill and high. She seemed about to burst into tears.

"There, there, dear little pal!" whispered Lucile. "I think I understand.

But tell me, why did you take a job as wrapper when you really wasn't poor and didn't need the money?"

"Money!" laughed Cordie, now quite herself again. "I've never had to ask for any in my whole life! My father owns a third of that big store we worked in, and a lot besides."

"But d.i.c.k?" said Lucile.

"I rode d.i.c.k on my father's estate. It nearly broke my heart when they sold him. My father gave up his stables."

"But you haven't told me why you wanted to work in the store."

"Well, you see that day, the first day you ever saw me, just for fun I had dressed up in plain old fashioned clothes and had gone downtown for a lark. Then I did that foolish fainting stunt. I really, truly fainted.

And that man, that hawk-eyed man--" she shuddered, "must have recognized me. He must have known he could get a lot of money from father if only he could carry me away. Anyway he tried it and you--saved me!" She paused to give Lucile another hug.

"You are coming to my house for Christmas dinner, and I've kept track of everything in a little book and I'm going to pay you every cent, truly I am, and we'll have the best time.

"But I was going to tell you," she paused in her mad ramble, "I was----"

"Listen!" Miss Diurno held up a hand for silence, "Cordie, someone is paging your name. Here! Over here!" she called to the bell boy.

"Telephone," said the boy.

The three sat in silence until Cordie returned.

"What do you think!" she exclaimed as she came bounding toward them. "It was James, my friend the bundle carrier at the phone. They've worked fast. They raided the room of--of the hawk-eyed man and they found James'

silver fox skins. And Auntie, I'm going to have father buy them as a present for you. Won't that be g-grand!"

"I should think it might," smiled her aunt, giving her arm an affectionate squeeze. "But, my dear, you hadn't finished telling Lucile."

"Oh! That's a short story now. When I saw how good and kind you were,"

Cordie said, turning to Lucile, "when I saw the work there was to do and everything, I was fascinated. I just wanted to play I was just what you thought me to be. So I called up my father and made him let me do it.

That was all there was to it.

"But Auntie!" she exclaimed, turning to Miss Diurno. "Why did you steal my badge of serfdom?"

"Your what?"

"My badge of serfdom, the iron ring. In olden days serfs wore iron collars; now it's an iron ring."

"Oh, your iron ring!" laughed her aunt. "I needed it for my stunt. But here it is; you may have it and welcome, diamond and all."

"I shall keep you ever and always," murmured the girl, pressing the ring to her lips. "I shall cherish you in memory of a grand and glorious adventure."

"Of course you understood," said Miss Diurno, turning to Lucile, "that you are to keep the fur lined cape."

"No, I----"

"Oh yes, you must! It was the one extravagance that I made the paper pay for. I traded with you, and have lost yours, so there is really no other way out. Besides," her voice softened, "I want you to accept it as a gift from me, a little token of appreciation for your many kindnesses to my little niece."

Lucile's head was in a whirl. She found herself unable to think clearly of all her good fortune. A great musician, an author, and a very rich girl for her friends; a magnificent cape of midnight blue and fox skin, and two hundred dollars in gold! Merry Christmas! What a Christmas it would be indeed!

"Listen," whispered Miss Diurno. From some distant room there came the slow, sweet chimes of a clock.

"Striking midnight," she whispered. Then from far and near there came the clanging of church bells.

"Christmas morning!" exclaimed Miss Diurno, springing to her feet.

"Merry, Merry Christmas to all!"

"Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas!" they chorused in return.

CHAPTER XXV WHAT THE BROWN BAG HELD

At the precise moment that the four companions in the great city hotel rose to offer each other their Christmas greetings, Florence and Meg stood over the fascinating bag which had cost Florence so much worry and trouble. As Florence felt in her purse for the key she found herself wondering for the hundredth time what it might contain.

"Christmas, my Christmas secret," she whispered. Then, as she felt the key within her grasp, she turned resolutely to the task. Although she had looked forward to this hour with pleasure, now it seemed to hold something of a feeling of fear. She was opening a bag which had belonged to another. What might it not contain?

With trembling fingers she broke the seal which had so long and faithfully hidden the secret. Then, with a steadier hand, she inserted the key.

For a full moment after that she stood there in silence. She was saying to herself over and over again: "There is nothing, nothing, nothing in there that I shall care for. Nothing, nothing, nothing."

Thus fortified against disappointment, she at last turned the key, pulled the flap and threw the bag wide open.

The first look brought a glimpse of a bit of negligee. Nothing so exciting in this.

"Well anyway," sighed Florence, "it--wasn't a man's bag. It could not have belonged to that--that man."

"No," said Meg, "it couldn't."

One by one Florence removed the few articles of clothing that had been packed in the bag. These were of fine texture and well made. But beneath these was something to bring an exclamation to her lips.

Putting out her hand, she lifted to view a roll of silk cloth, of royal blue, and of such thinness and fineness as she had seldom seen in all her life.