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To Flame’s inner vision appeared quite suddenly the pale, inscrutable face of the old Butler who asked nothing,–answered nothing,–welcomed nothing,–evaded nothing.

“… Yes’m,” said Flame.

But it was a very frankly disconsolate little girl who stole late that night to her Father’s study, and perched herself high on the arm of his chair with her cheek snuggled close to his.

“Of Father-Funny,” whispered Flame, “I’ve got such a queer little pain.”

“A pain?” jerked her Father. “Oh dear me! Where is it? Go and find your Mother at once!”

“Mother?” frowned Flame. “Oh it isn’t that kind of a pain.–It’s in my Christmas. I’ve got such a sad little pain in my Christmas.”

“Oh dear me–dear me!” sighed her Father. Like two people most precipitously smitten with shyness they sat for a moment staring blankly around the room at every conceivable object except each other. Then quite suddenly they looked back at each other and smiled.

“Father,” said Flame. “You’re not of course a very old man…. But still you are pretty old, aren’t you? You’ve seen a whole lot of Christmasses, I mean?”

“Yes,” conceded her Father.

From the great clumsy rolling collar of her blanket wrapper Flame’s little face loomed suddenly very pink and earnest.

“But Father,” urged Flame. “Did you ever in your whole life spend a Christmas just exactly the way you wanted to? Honest-to-Santa Claus now,–did you ever?“

“Why–Why, no,” admitted her Father after a second’s hesitation. “Why no, I don’t believe I ever did.” Quite frankly between his brows there puckered a very black frown. “Now take to-morrow, for instance,” he complained. “I had planned to go fishing through the ice…. After the morning service, of course,–after we’d had our Christmas dinner,–and gotten tired of our presents,–every intention in the world I had of going fishing through the ice…. And now your Uncle Wally has to go and have a shock! I don’t believe it was necessary. He should have taken extra precautions. The least that delicate relatives can do is to take extra precautions at holiday time…. Oh, of course your Uncle Wally has books in his library,” he brightened, “very interesting old books that wouldn’t be perfectly seemly for a minister of the Gospel to have in his own library…. But still it’s very disappointing,” he wilted again.

“I agree with you … utterly, Father-Funny!” said Flame. “But … Father,” she persisted, “Of all the people you know in the world,–millions would it be?”

“No, call it thousands” corrected her Father.

“Well, thousands,” accepted Flame. “Old people, young people, fat people, skinnys, cross people, jolly people?… Did you ever in your life know any one who had ever spent Christmas just the way he wanted to?”

“Why … no, I don’t know that I ever did,” considered her Father. With his elbows on the arms of his chair, his slender fingers forked to a lovely Gothic arch above the bridge of his nose, he yielded himself instantly to the reflection. “Why … no, … I don’t know that I ever did,” he repeated with an increasing air of conviction…. “When you’re young enough to enjoy the day as a ‘holler’ day there’s usually some blighting person who prefers to have it observed as a holy day…. And by the time you reach an age where you really rather appreciate its being a holy day the chances are that you’ve got a houseful of racketty youngsters who fairly insist on reverting to the ‘holler’ day idea again.”

“U–m–m,” encouraged Flame.

–“When you’re little, of course,” mused her Father, “you have to spend the day the way your elders want you to!… You crave a Christmas Tree but they prefer stockings! You yearn to skate but they consider the weather better for corn-popping! You ask for a bicycle but they had already found a very nice bargain in flannels! You beg to dine the gay-kerchiefed Scissor-Grinder’s child, but they invite the Minister’s toothless mother-in-law!… And when you’re old enough to go courting,” he sighed, “your lady-love’s sentiments are outraged if you don’t spend the day with her and your own family are perfectly furious if you don’t spend the day with them!… And after you’re married?” With a gesture of ultimate despair he sank back into his cushions. “N–o, no one, I suppose, in the whole world, has ever spent Christmas just exactly the way he wanted to!”