Classic Audiobook Collection - Peace on Earth, Good Will to Dogs by Eleanor Hallowell Abbott ~ Full Audiobook [romance]

Episode Date: December 22, 2022

Peace on Earth, Good Will to Dogs by Eleanor Hallowell Abbott audiobook. Genre: romance If you don't like Christmas stories, don't read this one! And if you don't like dogs, I don't know just what to advise you to do! For I warn you perfectly frankly that I am distinctly pro-dog and distinctly pro-Christmas, and would like to bring to this little story whatever whiff of fir-balsam I can cajole from the make-believe forest in my typewriter, and every glitter of tinsel, smudge of toy candle, crackle of wrapping paper, that my particular brand of brain and ink can conjure up on a single keyboard! And very large-sized dogs shall romp through every page! And the mercury shiver perpetually in the vicinity of zero! And every foot of earth be crusty-brown and bare with no white snow at all till the very last moment when you'd just about given up hope! And all the heart of the story is very,—oh very young! For purposes of propriety and general historical authenticity there are of course parents in the story. And one or two other oldish persons. But they all go away just as early in the narrative as I can manage it.—Are obliged to go away! Yet lest you find in this general combination of circumstances some sinister threat of audacity, let me conventionalize the story at once by opening it at that most conventional of all conventional Christmas-story hours,—the Twilight of Christmas Eve.' For ad-free listening try our premium subscription Chapters (Approximate) (00:00:00) Chapter 01 (00:47:45) Chapter 02 (01:24:48) Chapter 03 Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Peace on Earth Goodwill to Dogs by Eleanor Howell Abbott Part One If you don't like Christmas stories, don't read this one, and if you don't like dogs, I don't know just what to advise you to do. For I warn you, perfectly frankly, that I am distinctly pro-dog and distinctly pro-Christmas, and would like to bring to this little story whatever whiff of fur-balsam I can cajole from the make-believe forest in my typewriter. And every glitter of tinsel, smudge of toy candle, crackle of wrapping-paper, that my particular brand of brain and ache can conjure up from a single keyboard.

And very large-sized dogs shall romp through every page. and the mercury shiver perpetually in the vicinity of zero, and every foot of earth be crusty brown, and bear with no white snow at all, till the very last moment when you just about given up hope. And all the heart of the story is very, oh, very young. For purposes of propriety and general historical authenticity, there are, of course, parents in the story.

and one or two other oldish persons but they all go away just as early in the narrative as i can manage it are obliged to go away yet lest you find in this general combination of circumstances some sinister threat of audacity let me conventionalize the story at once by opening it at that most conventional of all conventional christmas story hours the twilight of christmas eve nuff said christmas eve you remember twilight awfully cold weather and somebody very young now for the story itself after five blustering wintry weeks of village speculation and gossip there was of course considerable satisfaction in being the first to solve the mysterious holiday tenancy of the rattlepane house breathless with excitement flame norice telephoned the news from the village post-office from a pedestal of boxes fairly bulging with red-wheeled go-carts one keen young elbow rammed for balance into a gay glassy shelf of stick candy green tissue garlands tickling across her cheek she sped the message to her mother oh mother funny triumphed flame i found out whose grueless Christmasing at the Rattlepane House. It's a red-haired setter dog with one black ear,

and he's sitting at the front gate this moment? Superintending the unpacking of the furniture van, and I've named him Lopsy. Why, Flame, how absurd! Gasped her mother. In consideration of the fact that Flame's mother had run all the way from the icy-footed chicken yard to answer the telephone,

It shows distinctly what stuff she was made of, that she gasped nothing else. And that Flame herself re-telephoned within the half-hour, to acknowledge her absurdity, shows equally distinctly what stuff she was made of. It was from the summit of a crate of Holly wreaths that she telephoned this time. Oh, Mother Fonnie, apologized Flame. You were perfectly right. no lone dog in the world could possibly manage a great spooky place like the rattlepane house there are two other dogs with him a great long narrow sofa-shaped dog upholstered in lemon and white something terribly ferocious like russian wolfhound i think he is but i've named him beautiful lovely and there's the neatest looking paper-white coach dog just perfectly ruined with ink spots blunderbushabye

blunderblot i think will make a good name for him and oh flame panted her mother dogs do not take houses it was not from the chicken-yard that she had come running this time but only from her husband's sermon-writing room in the attic oh don't they though bloated flame well they've taken this one anyway taken it by stormy I mean, scratched all the green paint off the front door, tore a big hole as a cavern in the Barbary hedge, pushed the sun-dial through a bulkhead, if it snows to-night the cellar will be a glacier, and dogs do not take houses," persisted Flames's mother. She was still persisting it, indeed, when she returned to her husband's study. Her husband, it seemed, had not noticed her absence. still pouring over the tomes and commentaries incidental to the preparation of his next sunday's sermon his fine face glowed half frown half ecstasy in the december twilight

while close at his elbow all unnoticed a smoking kerosene lamp went smudging its acrid path to the ceiling dusky lock for dusky lock dreamy eye for dreamy eye smoking lamp for smoking lamp it might have been a short-haired replica of Flame herself. Oh, if Flame had only been set like the maternal side of the house, reasoned Flame's mother, or merely dreamy like her father, her father being only dreamy could sometimes be diverted from his dreams, but to be set and dreamy both, absolutely set on being absolutely dreamy dreamy that was flame with renewed tenacity flame's mother reverted to truth as truth dogs do not take houses she affirmed with unmistakable emphasis eh what jumped her husband dogs dogs who said anything about dogs with a fretted pucker between his brows he bent to his work again you is a Interrupted me, he reproached her.

My sermon is about hell-fire. I had all but smelled it. It was very disagreeable. With a gesture of impatience, he snatched up his notes and tore them in two. I think I will write about the Garden of Eden instead, he rallied. The Garden of Eden in Iris Time. Florentina Alba everywhere. Whiteness, sweetness?

Now, let me see. Oris Root, I believe, is deducted from the Florentina Alba. Hmm, hmm, sniffed Flames's mother. With an impulse, purely practical, she started for the kitchen. The season happens to be Christmas time, she suggested bluntly. Now, if you could see your way to make a sermon that smelt like doughnuts and plum pudding— Donuts? Quarried her husband, and hurried after her.

supplementing the far remote glory of God expression in his face, the glory of donuts shone suddenly, very warmly. Flame, at least, did not have to be reminded about the seasons. "'Oh, mother!' telephoned Flame, almost at once. "'It's so much nearer Christmas than it was half an hour ago. Are you sure everything will keep? All those big packages that came in yesterday? that humpy one especially don't you think you ought to peep or poke just the tiniest tiniest little peep or poke it would be a shame if anything spoiled a turkey or a fur coat or anything

i am making doughnuts confided to her mother with the faintest possible taint of asperity oh conceited flame and and father's watching them then i'll hurry mother depreciated the excited young voice you are always so horridly right lopsy and beautiful lovely and blunderblot are not christmasing all alone in the rattlepane house there is a man with them don't tell father he's so nervous about men a man stammered her mother oh i hope not a young man where did he come from "'Oh, I don't think he came at all,' confided Flame. It was Flame who was perplexed this time. He looks to me more like a person who has always been there. Like something I mean that the dogs found in the attic. Quite crumpled he is, and with a red waistcoat, a—a, a butler, perhaps? A sort of second-hand butler?

Oh, mother, I wish we had a butler. Flame—' interrupted her mother quite abruptly. "'Where are you doing all this telephoning from?' "'I only gave you eighteen cents, and it was to buy cereal with.' "'Serial?' considered Flame. "'Oh, that's all right,' she glowed suddenly. "'I pay cash for the telephoning, and charge the cereal.'

With a swallow, faintly guttural, Flame's mother hung up the receiver. "'Dogs do not have butlers. She persisted unshakenly. She was perfectly right. They did not, it seemed. No one was quicker than Flame to acknowledge a mistake. Before five o'clock, Flame had added a telephone item to the serial bill. Oh, Mother?

questioned Flame. The little red sweater and Tam that I have on, would they be all right, do you think for me to make a call in? Not a formal call, of course. Just a name. neighborly greeting at the door. It being Christmas Eve and everything, and as long as I have to pass right by the house anyway, there is a lady at the Rattlepane house, a—a what follow would call a lady maiden,

Miss— Oh, not a real lady, I think, protested her mother. Not with all those dogs. No real lady I think would have so many dogs. It—it isn't sanitary." "'Isn't sanitary?' cried Flame. "'Why, Mother!

They are the most absolutely, perfectly sanitary dogs you ever saw in your life!' Into her eager young voice, an expression of ineffable dignity shot suddenly. "'Well, really, Mother,' she said. "'In whatever concerns men or crocheting, I'm perfectly willing to take father's advice or yours. But, after all, I'm eighteen,' stiffened the young voice. and when it comes to dogs, I must use my own judgment. And just what is the lady's name? questioned her mother a bit weakly.

Her name is Miss Flora, brightened flame. The butler has just gone to the station to meet her. I heard him telephoning quite franzedly. I think she must have missed her train or something. It seemed to make everybody very nervous. Maybe she's nervous. Maybe she's a nervous invalid, with a lost lover somewhere, and all sorts of pressed flowers. Somebody ought to call, anyway, call right away, I mean, before she gets any more nervous.

So many people's first impressions of a place, I've heard, are spoiled for lack of some perfectly silly little thing like a nutmeg grater or a hot water bottle. And, oh, mother, it's been so long since anyone lived in the Rattelpane House. Not for years and years and years. Not dogs, anyway. Not a lemon and white wolfhound. Not setters, not spotty dogs. Oh, mother, just one little wee single minute at the door? The Reverend and Mrs. Flamon, Norris, present their compliments.

Just long enough to say, the Reverend and Mrs. Flamon, Norris, present their compliments. and are you by any chance short a marrow bone or would you possibly care to borrow an extra quilt to rug up under the kitchen table blunderblot doesn't look very thick or oh mother please when flames said please like that the word was no more no less than the fabled bundle of rags or hunch of venison hurled back from a wolf-pursued sleigh to devour to devour. the pursuer even temporarily from the main issue. While Flame's mother paused to consider the particularly flavorous sweetness of that entreaty, to picture the flashing-throat, the absurdly crinkled nostril that invariably accompanied all Flame's entreaties, Flame herself was escaping. Taken all in all, escaping was one of the best things that Flame did, as well as well ascaping.

well as the most becoming. Whipped into scarlet by the sudden plunge from a stove-heeded store into the frosty night, her young cheeks fairly blazed their bright reaction. Frost and speed quickened her breath. Glint for glint, her shining eyes challenged the moon. Fearful even yet that some tardy admonition might overtake her, she sped like a deer through the darkness. It was a dull-smelling night.

Pretty but very dull-smelling. Disdainfully her nostrils crinkled their disappointment. Christmas-time adventures are to smell like Christmas, she scolded. Maybe if I'm ever president, she argued, I won't do so awfully well with the terror for things like that. But Christmas shall smell of Christmas. just of frozen mud and camphor balls. I'll have great vats of fur-balsome essence at every street corner, and gigantic atomizers, and every passer-by shall be sprayed, and stores and

churches, and everybody who doesn't like Christmas, shall be dipped. Under her feet the smoothish village road turns suddenly into the harsh and hobbly ruts of a country lane. With fluctuant blackness against immutable blackness, great sweeping pine trees swished weirdly into the horizon, where the hobbly lane curved darkly into a meadow through a snarl of winter-stricken willows, the rattle of a loose window-pane smote quite distinctly on the air. It was a horrid, deserted sound, and with the instinctive habit of years, Flames' little hand clutched at her heart. Then, quite abruptly, she laughed aloud.

Oh, you can't scare me any more. You gloomy old rattlepane house, she laughed. You're not deserted now. People are Christmassing in you. Whether you like it or not, you're being Christmast. Very tentatively she puckered her lips to a whistle. Almost instantly from the darkness ahead, a dog's bark rang out.

deep, sonorous, faintly suspicious. With a little chuckle of joy, she crawled through the Barbary hedge, and emerged for a single instant only at her full height, before three furry shapes, came hurtling out of the darkness and toppled her over backwards. "'Stop, beautiful, lovely!' she gasped. "'Stop, lops! Behave yourself, blunderblot! Sillies!

Don't you know I'm the lady that was talking to you this month? morning through the picket fence. Don't you know I'm the lady that fed you the box of cereal? Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear, she struggled. I knew, of course, that there were three dogs, but whoever in the world would have guessed that three could be so many. As expeditiously as possible, she picked herself up and bolted for the house, with two furry shapes leaping largely on either side of her, and one cold nose sniffing

interrogatively at her heels. Her heart was very light, her pulses jumping with excitement. An occasional furry head, doming into the palm of her hand, warmed the whole bleak night with its sense of mute companionship. But the back of her heels felt certainly very queer. Even the warm yellow lights of the Rattlepane house did not altogether dispel her uneasiness. maybe i'd better not plan to make my call so-so very informal she decided suddenly not at a house where there are quite so many dogs not at a house where there is a butler anyway crowding and pushing and yelping and fawning around her it was the dogs who announced her ultimate arrival like a drift of snow the huge wolf-hound whirled his white shagginess into the vestibule shrill as a banging blind the impetuous coach-dog lurched his sleek weight against the door sucking at a crack of light the red setters kindle nose glowed and snorted with dragon-like ferocity without knock or ring the door-handle creaked and turned three ecstatic shapes went hurling through a yellow glare into the hall beyond and flame found herself staring up into the blinking a stalker

astonished eyes of the crumpled old man with the red waistcoat. Good—good evening, butler, she rallied. Good evening, miss," stammered the butler. I've—I've come to call, confided Flame. To—call? stammered the butler. Yes, conceded flame. I don't happen to have an engrave card with me, before the continued imperturbability

of the old butler, all subterfuge seemed suddenly quite useless. I never had an engraved card. She confided quite abruptly. But you might tell Miss Flora, if you please. Would nothing crack the butler's imperturbability? Well, maybe she could prove just a little bit imperturbable herself. Oh, butlers don't tell people things, do they? They always announce things, don't they?

Well, kindly announced to Miss Flora that that the the minister's daughter is at the door oh no it isn't asking for a subscription or anything she hastened quite suddenly to explain it's just a christian call being so nervous and lost on the train and everything we thought miss flora might be glad to know that there were neighbors we live so near and everything and can run like the wind oh not mother of course she's a bit stout and father starts all right right but usually gets thinking of something else, but I kindly announced to Miss Flora, she repeated with palpable crispness, that the minister's daughter is at the door. Fixedly old, fixedly crumpled, fixedly imperturbable, the butler stepped back a single, jerky pace, and bowed her towards the parlor. Now, thrilled flame, the adventure really begins.

it certainly was a sad and romantic-looking parlor strangely furnished flame thought for even moving times through a maze of bulging packing-boxes and barrels she picked her way to a faded rose-colored chair that flanked the fireplace that the chair was already half occupied by a pile of ancient books and four dusty garden trowls only served to intensify the general air of gloom presiding over all two dreadful bouquets of long dead grasses flared wanly on the mantelpiece and from the tattered old landscape paper on the walls civil war heroes stared regretfully down through pale and tarnished frames dear me shivered flame they're not going to christmas at all evidently not a sprig of holly anywhere not a ravel of tinsel not a jist Jingle Bell? Oh, she must have lost a lot of lovers, thrilled Flame. I can bring her flowers, anyway. My very first paper-white narcissus.

My— With a scrape of the foot, the butler made known his return. Miss Flora, he announced. With a catch of her breath, Flame jumped to her feet and turned to greet the biggest, ugliest, most brindled, most whistened bull-belled. she had ever seen in her life. Miss Flora, repeated the old butler,

succinctly. Miss Flora? gasped flame. Why, I thought Miss Flora was a lady. Why, Miss Flora, is indeed a very grand lady, miss, affirmed the butler, without a flicker of expression. Of a pedigree so famous, so distinguished, so—numerically on his fingers, he began to count the distinctions.

Five prizes this year, and three last. Do you mind the chop, he gloated, the breath, the depth? Did you ever hear of a lance, he demanded? Them bull-baiting dogs that was invented by the Second Duke of York are thereabouts in the year fourteenth. Oh, my glory! thrilled flame. "'Is Miss Flora as old as that?'

"'Miss Flora,' said the old butler with some dignity. "'Is young, hardly too, in fact, so young that she seems to me but just weaned.' With her great eyes goggled to a particularly disconcerting sort of scrutiny, Miss Flora sprang suddenly forward to investigate the visitor. As though by a preconcerted signal a chair crashed over in the hall, and the wolfhound and the setter and the coach-dog came hurtling back in a furiously cordial onslaught. With wags and growls and yelps of joy, all four dogs met in Flames' lap.

They seem to like me, don't they? Triumpted Flame. Intermittently, through the melee of flapping ears, shoving shoulders, waved, her beaming little face proved the absolute sincerity of that triumph. Mother's never let me have any dogs, she confided. Mother thinks they're not—oh, of course I realize that four dogs is a—a good many. She hastened diplomatically to concede to a certain sudden droop around the old butler's mouth corners.

From his slow, stooping poke of the sulky fire the old butler glanced up with a certain plaintive intentness. All dogs is too many, he affirmed. Come Christmas time, I wishes I was dead. Wish you were dead at Christmas time? cried Flame. Acute shock was in her protest. It's the feeding, sighed the old butler.

It ain't that I mind eating with them on all saints' day or Fourth of July or even Sundays. But come Christmas to-time. time, it seems like I craves to eat with more humans. I got a nephew less than twenty miles away. He's got cider in his cellar and plum-puddings. His woman, she raises guinea chickens, and mince pies there is, and tasty gravies, but me, I mix his dog-bread and milk, dog-bread-and-milk till I can't see nothing, think nothing but mush. And him with the cider in his cellar. It ain't as though Mr. Delcote ever came himself to prove anything, he argued.

Not he. Not Christmas time. It's traveling he is. He's had misfortunes, he confided darkly. He travels for him same as some folks travels for their healths. Most especially at Christmas time he travels for his misfortunes. He— Mr. Delcote?

Quickenflame. Mr. Delcote? Wellcoat? Now at last was the mysterious tendency about to be divulged. All he says, persisted the old butler. All he says is, now, Barrett, that's me. Now, Barrett, I trust your honor, to see that the dogs ain't neglected just because it's Christmas. There ain't no reason, Barrett, he says, why innocent dogs should suffer Christmas just because everybody else does. "'They ain't done nothing. "'It won't do now, Barrett,' he says, "'for you to give them their dinner at dawn

"'when they ain't accustomed to it, "'and a pail of water, "'and shut them up while you go off for the day "'with any barrel of cider. "'You know what dogs is, Barrett,' he says, "'and what they isn't. "'They've got to be fed regular,' he says, "'and with discipline.

"' Else there's deaths, "'some natural, some unnatural, "'and some just plain spectacular, from furniture falling on their arguments. So, if there's any fatalities come this Christmas time, Barrett, he says, Are any undue gains in weight or losses in weight, I shall infer, Barrett, he says, that you was absent without leave. Ah, it don't look like a very wholesome Christmas for me, sighed the old butler.

Not either way, not what you call wholesome. But this Mr. Delcote, Pustled flame. what a perfectly horrid man he must be to give such heavenly dogs nothing but dog bread and milk for their christmas dinner is he young is he old is he thin is he fat however in the world did he happen to come to a queer battered old place like the rattlepane house but once come why didn't he stay and-and and-and yes im sighed the old butler in a ferment of curiosity flame edged jerkily forward and subsided as jerkily again oh if this only was a parish call she'd appreciated i could ask questions right out loud how where why when but being just a social call i suppose I suppose, appealingly, her eager eyes searched the old butler's inscrutable face. Yes, repeated the old butler dully. Through the quivering fingers that he swept suddenly across his brow,

two very genuine tears glistened. With characteristic precipitousness, Flame jumped to her feet. Oh, darn Mr. Delcote, she cried. I'll feed your dog's Christmas Day. It won't take a minute after my own dinner, or before. I'll run like the wind. No one need ever know. So it was that when Flame arrived at her own home, fifteen minutes later,

and found her parents madly engaged in packing suitcases, searching time tables, and rushing generally to infrow from attic to cellar, No very mutual exchange of confidences ensued. "'It's your Uncle Wally,' panted her mother. Another shock, confided her father. "'Not such a bad one, either,' explained her mother. "'But, of course, we'll have to go. The very first thing in the morning.

Christmas Day, too. And leave you all alone. It's a perfect shame. But I've planned it all out for everybody. Father's lay reader, of course, will take the Christmas service. We'll just have to omit the Christmas tree surprise for the children. It's lucky we didn't even unpack the trimmings, or tell a soul about it. In a hectic effort to pack both a thick coat and a thin coat and a thick dress and a thin dress,

and thick boots and thin boots in the same suitcase, she began, very palpably, to pant again. Yes, every detail is all planned out, she asserted with a breathy sort of pride. you and your father are both so flighty, I don't know whatever in the world you'd do if I didn't plan out everything for you. With more manners than efficiency, Flame and her father dropped at once every helpful thing they were doing, and sat down in rocking-chairs to listen to the plan. Flame, of course, can't stay here all alone. Flame's mother turned and confided Satovojo to her husband.

Young men might call. The lay-reader is almost sure to call. He's a dear delightful soul, of course, but I'm afraid he has an amorous eye. All lay-readers have amorous eyes, reflected her husband. Taken all in all, it is a great asset. Don't be flippant, admonished Flames's mother. There are reasons why I prefer that Flames' first offer of marriage should not be from a lay-reader. Why? Brightened Flame.

Sh! cautioned her father. Very good reasons, repeated her mother. From the conglomerate packing under her hand a puff of spilled tooth-powder wiffed fragrantly into the air. Yes, prodded her husband's blandly impatient voice. Flame shall go to her aunt Minas, announced the dominant maternal voice. By driving with us to the station she'll have only two hours to wait for her train, and that will save one bus fare.

Aunt Mina is a vegetarian and doesn't believe in sweets either, so that will be quite a unique and profitable experience for Flame to add to her general culinary education. It's a wonderful house, a bit dark, of course. But if the day should prove at all bright—not so bright, of course, that Aunt Mina wouldn't be willing to have the shades up, but—oh, in Flame, she admonished, still breathlessly. I think you'd better be careful to wear one of your rather longish skirts. And oh, do be sure to wipe your feet every time you come in, and don't chatter.

Whatever you do, don't chatter. Your Aunt Mina, you know, is just a little bit peculiar, but such a worthy woman, so methodical, so— To Flames'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 cheeks 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 Christmases, I mean.' "'Yes,' conceded her father. From the great clumsy rolling collar of her blanket wrapper, Flames'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 as 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 tomorrow, 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, skinnies, cross people, jolly people?

Did you ever in your life know anyone who has 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 God.

conviction. When you're young enough to enjoy the day of a holiday, 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 it being a holy day, the chances are that you've got a house full of rackety youngsters who fairly insist on reverting to the holiday idea again. Mm-hmm. Encourage, 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 the gesture of ultimate despair,

he sank back into his cushions. No, no one, I suppose, in the whole world. has ever spent Christmas just exactly the way he wanted to. Well, I, Triumph to Flame, have got a chance to spend Christmas just exactly the way I want to. The one chance perhaps in a lifetime it would seem. No heartaches involved, no hurt feelings, no disappointments for anybody. Nobody left out. Nobody dragged in.

Why, Father Funny, she cried. It's an experience that might distinguish me all my life long. Even when I'm very old and crumpled, people will point me out on the street and say, There's someone who once spent Christmas, just exactly the way she wanted to. To a limpness, almost unbelievable, the eager little figure wilted down within its blanket-wrapper swathings. And now, depreciated, Flame. Mother has gone and wished me on Aunt Mina instead. With a sudden revival of enthusiasm, two small hands crept out of their big cuffs

and clutched her father by the ears. "'Oh, father, funny,' pleaded Flame. "'If you were too old to want it for a holiday and not quite old enough to need it for a holy day, so that all you asked in the world was just to have it a holiday, something all bright, red and green, and tinsel, and jingle bells. How would you like to have Aunt Mina wished on you? It isn't, you know, as though Aunt Mina was a pleasant person, she argued, with perfectly indisputable logic. You couldn't wish one a merry Aunt Mina any more than you could wish him a merry good-futable.

Friday. From the clutch on his ears the small hands crept to a point at the back of his neck, where they encompassed him suddenly in a crunching hug. "'Oh, father, funny,' implored Flame. "'You were a lay reader once. You must have had very amorous eyes. Couldn't you please persuade Mother that?' With a crisp flutter of skirts, Flames' mother herself appeared abruptly in the door.

Her manner was very excited. "'Why wherever in the world have you people been?' she cried. "'Are you stone deaf? Didn't you hear the telephone? Couldn't you even hear me calling?' "'Your Uncle Wally is worse. That is he's better, but he thinks he's worse. And they want us to come at once.

It's something about a new will. The lawyer telephoned. He advises us to come at once. They've sent an automobile for us. It will be here any minute. but whatever in the world shall we do about flame she cried distractedly you know how uncle wally feels about having young people in the house and she can't possibly go to aunt minas till to-morrow and-but you see i'm not going to aunt minas announced flame quite serenely slipping down from her father's lap she stood with a round roly-poly flannel sort of dignity confronting both her parents father says i don't have to why flame protested her father no of course you didn't say it with your mouth admitted flame but you said it with your skin and bones i could feel it working not go to your aunt milas gasped her mother what do you want to do

Stay at home and spend Christmas with the lay-reader? When you and father talk like that, murmured Flame with some hauteur, I don't know whether you're trying to run him down or run him up. Well, how do you feel about him yourself? Veered her father quite irrelevantly. Oh, I like him, some, conceded flame. In her bright cheeks suddenly, an even brighter color glowed. I like him when he leaves out the litany, she said.

I've told him I like him when he leaves out the litany. He's leaving it out more and more, I notice. Yes, I like him very much." But this ain't mean a business," veered back her father suddenly. "'What do you want to do? That's just the question. What do you want to do?' "'Yes, what do you want to do?' panted her mother.

"'I want to make a Christmas for myself,' said Flame. Of course I know perfectly well,' she agreed, "'that I could go to a dozen places in the parish be cry-babied over for my presumable loneliness and probably i should cry a little she wavered toward the dessert when the plum pudding came in and it wasn't like mothers but if i made a christmas of my own she rallied instantly everything about it would be brand-new and unassociated i tell you i want to make a christmas of my own it's the chance of a lifetime even father sees that it's a the chance of a lifetime. Do you? demanded his wife a bit pointedly. Bunk, haunt!

screamed the motor at the door. Oh, dear me, whatever in the world shall I do? cried Flames' mother. I'm almost distracted. I'm— When in doubt, do as the doubters do, suggested Flames' father quite genially. Choose the most doubtful doubt on the docket, and Flames got a pretty level head. He interrupted himself very careful. characteristically.

No young girl has a level heart, asserted Flames's mother. I'm so worried about the lay-reader. Lay-reader? murmured her father. Already he had crossed the threshold into the hall, and was rummaging through an overloaded hat-rack for his fur coat. Why, yes, he called back. I quite forgot to ask, but just what kind of Christmas is it,

flame that you want to make? With unprecedented accuracy he turned at the moment to force his wife's arms into the sleeves of her own fur coat. Twice Flame rolled up her cuffs and rolled them down again before she answered. I want to make a surprise for Miss Flora, she confided. Halk! Halk! urged the automobile. For Miss Flora? gasped her mother. Miss Flora, echoed her father. echoed her father.

"'Why, at the Rattlepane house, you know?' Rally Flame. "'Don't you remember that I call there this afternoon? It looked rather lonely there. I think—I think I could fix it.' "'Honk! Hawk! "'Hong!' implored the automobile.

"'But who is this Miss Flora?' cried her mother. "'I never heard anything so ridiculous in my life. "'How do we know she's respectable?' "'Oh, my dear.' "'Depreciated Flames's father, "'just as though the owners of the Rattlepane house "'would rent it to anyone who wasn't respectable.' "'Oh, she's very respectable,' insisted Flame.

"'Of lineage so distinguished, "'how old might this Paragon be?' queried her father. "'Old?' puzzled Flame. "'To her startled mind. "'Two answers only presented themselves. "'Should she say, oh, she's only just weaned, or, well, she was invented about fourteen o six. Between these two dilemmas, a single compromise suggested itself.

She's awfully wrinkled, said Flame, that is, her faces. All wizened up, I mean. Oh, that of course she must be respectable, Twinkled Flame's father. And is related in some way, persisted Flame, to Edward the Second Duke of York. of that guarantee of respectability i am of course not quite so sure said her father with a temperish stamping of feet an infuriating yank of the doorbell uncle wally's chauffeur announced that the limit of his endurance had been reached blankly flame's mother stared at flame's father blankly flame's father returned the stare oh please implored flame her face was crinkled like fine crape. Smooth out your nose, ordered her mother. On the verge of capitulation the same familiar fear assailed her.

Will you promise not to see the lay reader? she bargained. Yes'm, said Flame. End of Part two of Peace on Earth, Goodwill to Dogs, by Eleanor Howell Abbott. This Liebervox recording is in the public domain. Part 2. It's a dull person who doesn't wake up Christmas morning, with a curiously ticklish sense of tinsel in the pit of his stomach, a sort of shine, a kind of a pain. Glisten and tears, pang of the years.

That's Christmas. So much was born on Christmas Day, so much has died. so much is yet to come balsam scented with the pulse of bells how the senses sing memories that wouldn't have batted an eye for all the gabriel trumpets in eternity leaping to life at the sound of a two-penny horn merry folk who were with us once and or no more dream folk who have never been with us yet but will be some time ache of old carols zest of newfangled games flavor of puddings shine of silver and glass the pleasant frosty smell of the expressman the gift dutiful the gift that didn't come high ho manger and toy shop miracle and mirth glisten and tears laugh at the years that's christmas flame norice certainly was willing to laugh at the years that's christmas flame norice certainly was willing to laugh at the years years. Eighteen usually is.

Waking at dawn, two single thoughts consumed her. The lay-reader and the humpiest of the express packages downstairs. The lay-reader's name was Bertrand. Bertrand the lay-reader, Flame always called him. The rest of the parish called him Mr. Lorello. It was the thought of Bertrand the lay-reader that made Flame laugh the most. as long as i promised most faithfully not to see him she laughed how can i possibly go to church for the first christmas in my life she laughed i won't have to go to church with this obligation so cheerfully cancelled the exploration of the humpiest express package loomed definitely as the next task on the horizon

hoping for a fur coat from her father fearing for a set of encyclopedias from her mother she tore back the wrappings with eager hands only to find all astonished and half a scream a gay gauzy layer of animal masks nosing interrogatively up at her less practical surely than the fur coat more amusing certainly than encyclopedias the funny false faces, grinned up at her with the curiously excitative audacity. Where from? No identifying card. What for? No conceivable clue. Unless, perhaps, just on general principles, a donation for the Sunday school Christmas tree.

But there wasn't going to be any tree. Tentatively she reached into the box and touched the fiercely striped face. face of a tiger, the fantastically exaggerated beak of a red and green parrot. Hmm, mused, Flame. Whatever in the world shall I do with them? Then quite abruptly she sank back on her heels and began to laugh and laugh and laugh. Even the lay reader had not received such a laughing, but even to herself she did not say, just what she was laughing at. It was time for deeds it would seem, and not for words.

Certainly the morning was very full of deeds. There was, of course, a present from her mother to be opened, warm woolly stockings, and things like that. But no one was ever swirred from an original purpose by trying on warm woolly stockings. And from her father there was the most absurd little box no bigger than your nose marked for a week in New York, and stuffed to the brim with the sweetest bright green dollar bills. But of course you couldn't try those on. And half the parish sent presents, but no parish ever sent presents that needed to be tried on.

No gay fluffy scarfs, no lacy frivolous pettyshirts, no bright delaying hat ribbons, just books illustrated poems usually very wholesome pickles and always a huge motto to recommend peace on earth goodwill to men to men why not to women why not at least to dogs questioned flame quite abruptly taken all in all it was not a christmas morning of sentiment but a christmas morning of works kitchen works mostly useful flavorous adventures with a turkey a somewhat nervous sally with an apple pie intermittently of course a few experiments with flour paste a flare or two with a paint-brush an errand to the attic interminable giggles surely it was four o'clock before she was even ready to start for the rattlepane house and starting is by no means the same as arriving dragging a sled full of miscellaneous christmas goods an eighth of a mile over bare ground is not an easy task she had to make three tugging trips and each start was delayed by her big gray pussy-cat stealing out to try to follow her and each arrival complicated by the yelpings and leapings and general quartings of four dogs who didn't see any reason in the world why they shouldn't escape from their forced imprisonment in the shedyard and prance home with her even with the third start and the third arrival finally accomplished the crafty cat stood waiting for her on the steps of the rattlepane house back arched fur bristled spitting like some new kind of weathercock at the storm in the shedyard

and had to be thrust quite unceremoniously into a much too small covered basket and lashed down with yards and yards of tinsel that was needed quite definitely for something else It isn't just the way of the transgressor that's hard. Nobody's way is any too easy. The door-key, though, was exactly where the old butler had said it would be, under the door-mat, and the key itself turned astonishingly cordially in the rusty old lock. Never in her whole little life, having owned a door-key to her own house, it seemed quite an adventure in itself to be walking thus possessively through an unfamiliar hall into an absolutely unknown kitchen and goodness knew what on either side and beyond perfectly too as the old butler had promised the four dog dishes heaped to the brim loomed in prim line upon the kitchen table waiting for distribution

hmm sniffed flame nothing but mush mush all over the world to-day i suppose while their masters are feasting at other people's houses on puddings and and cigarettes how the poor darlings must suffer locked in sheds tied in yards stuffed down cellar mea-o twinged a plaintive hint from the hallway just outside oh but cats are different argued flame so soft so plushy so spineless cats were meant to be stuffed into things without further parlaying she doffed her red tam and sweater donned a huge white all-enveloping pinafore and started to ameliorate as best she could the christmas sufferings of the poor darlings immediately at hand it was at least a yellow kitchen or had been once in all that gray dank neglected house the one suggestion of old sunshine we shall have our dinner here chuckled flame after the carols we shall have our dinner here very boisterously in the yard just outside the window the fore-dogs scuffled and raced for sheer excitement and joy at this moment most unexpected advent of human companionship. Intermittently from time to time by the aid of old boxes or barrels, they clawed their way

up to the cobwebby window-sill to peer at the strange proceedings. Intermittently from time to time they fell back into the frozen yard in a chaos of fur and yelps. By five o'clock, certainly the faded yellow kitchen must have looked very strange, even to a dog. Straight down its dingy, wobbly floored center stretched a long table, cheerfully spread with the reverent Mrs. Flamond Noresa's second-best tablecloth. Quaint, high-backed chairs dragged in from the shadowy parlor circled the table.

A pleasant china plate gleamed like a hand-painted moon before each chair. At one end of the table loomed a big brown turkey, at the other the appropriate vegetables. Pies, cakes, and donuts interspersed themselves between. Green wreaths streaming with scarlet ribbons hung nonchalantly across every chairtop. Ten sole garlands shone on the walls. In the doorway reared a hastily constructed mimicry of a railroad crossing sign. Christmas Crossing. Look out for surprises. Shop, cook, glisten. Directly opposite and conspicuously placed above the rusty stovepipe, stretch the parish's gift motto, duly readjusted.

Peace on earth, good will to dogs. Fatuously silly emitted flame even to herself. But yet it does add something to the gaiety of rations. stepping aside for a single thrilling moment to study the full effect of her handiwork, the first psychological puzzle of her life smote sharply across her senses. Namely, that you never really get the whole fun out of anything unless you are absolutely alone. But the very first instant you find yourself absolutely alone with a really good time, you begin to twist and turn and hunt about for somebody very special to share it with you.

The only very special person that Flame could think of was Bertrand the lay reader. All a blush with the sheer mental surprise of it, she fled to the shed door to summon the dogs. Maybe even the dogs won't come, she reasoned hecticly. Maybe nothing will come, maybe that's always the way things happen when you get. your own way about something else. Like a blast from the Arctic, the Christmas twilight swept in on her. It crisped her cheeks, crinkled her hair, turned her spine to a wisp of pencil. All outdoors seemed suddenly creaking with frost, all indoors with unknowingness.

Come beautiful, lovely, she implored. Come Lopsy, Miss Flora, come Blunderblot. there was really no need of entreaty. A turn of the doorknob would have brought them, leaping, loping, loping, fore abreast, they came plunging like so many north winds to their party. Streak of snow, glow of fire, frozen mud, sunspot, yelping-mouthed, slapping-tailed, backs bristling, legs stiffening, wolfhound, setter, bulldog, dalmatian, each according to his comrade, mind, hurtling, crowding.

Oh, dear me, dear me, Struggle Flame. Maybe a carol would calm them. To a certain extent a carol certainly did. The hair-cloth parlor of the Rattlepane house would have calmed anything, and the mousy smell of the old piano fairly jerked the dogs to its senile old ivory keyboard. Cocking their ears to its quavering treble tones, snorting their nostrils through its gritty guttural bases, they watched Flame's facile fingers sweep from sound to sound.

Oh, what a glorious lark! Quivered Flame. What a lonely glorious lark! Timidly at first, but with an increasing abandon, half-laping! and half tears. The clear young soprano voice took up its playful paraphrase. God rest ye merry, animals, let nothing you dismay, caroled flame, for— It was just at this moment, that beautiful, lovely, the wolf-hound, muzzle-lifted, eyes rolling, jabbed his shrill nose into space and harmony with the carol of his own.

octaves of agony heaven knows what of ecstasy that would have hurried an owl to its nest a ghoul to a moving picture show caroled beautiful lovely as flames hands dropped from the piano the unmistakable creek of red wheels sounded on the frozen driveway just outside To the infinite scandalization of the parish, no one but Bertrand the lay-reader drove a buggy with red wheels. Fleet steps sounded suddenly on the path, startled fists beat furiously on the door. What is it? What is it? shouted a familiar voice.

Whatever in the world is happening, is it murder? Let me in, let me in. Silly! Hist Flame. threw a crack in the door. It's nothing but a party. Don't you know a party when you hear it? For an instant only blank silence greeted her confidence.

Then Bertrand the lay-reader relaxed in an indisputably genuine gasp of astonishment. Why—why, is that you, Miss Flame? he gasped. Why, I thought it was a murder. Why, whatever in the world are you doing here?' "'I'm—I'm having a party,' hissed Flame through the keyhole. "'A—a—a—a—a—a—a—a—a—a—a—a—a—a—a—?" Stamered the lay reader. Open the door. "'No, I—can't,' said Flame.

"'Why not?' demanded the lay reader. Helplessly in the darkness of the vestibule. Flame looked up and down and sideways. but met always in every direction the memory of her promise i-i just can't she admitted a bit weakly it wouldn't be convenient i-i've got trouble with my eyes trouble with your eyes questioned the lay reader i didn't go away with my father and mother confided flame no so i notice observed the lay reader please open the door why parried flame i've been looking for you everywhere urged the lay reader at the senior wardens at all the vestrymen's houses even at the sexton's i knew you didn't go away the garage man told me there were only two i thought surely i'd find you at your own house but i found only sleigh tracks that was me i mumbled and then i heard these awful screams shuddered the lay-reader that was a carol said flame a carol scoffed the lay-reader opened the door well just a crack conceded flame it was astonishing how a man as broad-shouldered as the lay-reader could pass so easily through a crack conscience-stricken flame fled before him with her elbow crooked across her forehead

Oh, my eyes, my eyes, she cried. Well, really, puzzled the lay-reader. Though I claim, of course, to be ordinarily bright, I had never suspected myself of being actually dazzling. Oh, you're not bright at all, protested flame. It's just my promise. I promised Mother not to see you. Not to see me?

questioned the lay-reader. It was a son. astonishing how almost instantaneously a man as purely theoretical as the lay-reader was supposed to be thought of a perfectly practical solution to the difficulty why why we might tie my big handkerchief across your eyes he suggested just till we get this mystery straightened out surely there is nothing more or less than just plain righteousness in that what a splendid idea capitulated flame but of course if i'm absolutely blindfolded she wavered for a second only you'll have to lead me by the hand i could do that admitted the lay reader with the big white handkerchief once tied firmly across her eyes flame's last scruple vanished well you see she began quite precipitously. I did think it would be such fun to have a party—a party all my own, I mean.

A party just exactly as I wanted it. No parish in it at all, or good works or anything, just fun. And as long as mother and father had to go away anyway, even through the blinding bandage, the young eyes seemed to lift in a half-whisful sort of appeal. You see, there's some sort of problem. involved. She confided quite impulsively. Uncle Wally's making a new will. There's a corn-born and a private chapel and a collection of Chinese lanterns, and a pie-ball pony principally under dispute. Mother, of course, thinks we ought to have the corn-born. But father can't

decide between the Chinese lanterns and the private chapel. Personally, she sighed, I'm hoping for the pie-ball pony. Yes, but this party? Protted the lay-reader. Oh, yes, the party, quickened, Flame. Why have it in a deserted house? questioned the lay-reader with some incisiveness. Even with her eyes closely bandaged,

Flame could see perfectly clearly that the lay-reader was really quite troubled. Oh, you see, it isn't exactly a deserted house, she explained. Who lives here? demanded the lay-reader. "'I don't know exactly,' admitted Flame. "'But the butler is a friend of mine, and—' "'The butler is a friend of yours?' gasped the lay-reader. Already, if Flame could only have seen it,

his head was cocked with sudden intentness towards the parlor door. "'There is certainly something very strange about all this,' he whispered a bit hectically. "'I could almost have sworn that I heard. heard a faint scuffle, the horrid sound of a person strangling." Strangling? Giggle Flame? Oh, that is just the sound of Miss Flora's girlish glee. If she'd only be content to chew the corner of the piano cover, but when she insists

on inhaling it too— "'Miss Flora?' gasped the lay reader. "'Is this a madhouse?' This Flora is a—a—a dog," confided Flame a bit coolly. I neglected, it seems, to state that this is a dog party that I'm having. "'Dogs?' winced the lay-reader. "'Will they bite? Only if you don't trust them,' confided Flame.

"'But it's so hard to trust a dog that will bite you if you don't trust him,' frowned the lay-reader. It makes such a sort of a—a vicious circle, as it were. Vicious circle, mused Flame a bit absent-mindedly. No, I don't think it's nice at all to call Miss Flora a vicious circle. It was Flames' turn now to wince back a little. I hate people who hate dogs, she cried out quite abruptly. Oh, I don't hate them, lied the lay reader like a gentleman.

It's only that—that—you see a dog bit me once. He confided with significant emphasis. I bit a dentist once, Muse Flame without any emphasis at all. Oh, but I say, Miss Flame, depreciated the lay reader. That's different. When a dog bites you, you know, there's always more or less question whether he was mad or not. There doesn't seem to have been any question at all, Muse Flame, that you were mad. Did you have your head sent off to be investigated or anything? Oh, I say, Miss Flame, implored the lay-reader.

I tell you I like dogs, good dogs. I assure you I'm very—oh, very much interested in this dog-party of yours. Such a quaint idea. So—so if I could be of any possible assistance, he implored. Maybe you could be, relaxed Flame ever so faintly. But if you're really coming to my party, she stiffened. again, you've got to behave like my party." "'Why, of course I'll behave like your party,' laughed the lay-reader.

"'There is a problem,' admitted Flame, five problems to be perfectly accurate. Four dogs and a cat in the woodshed. "'And a cat in the woodshed?' echoed the lay-reader, quite idiotically. "'The table is set,' affirmed Flame, the place is already. But I don't know how to get the dogs into their chairs. They run around so they yelp, they jump. They haven't had a mouthful to eat, you see, since last night this time. And when they once see the turkey, I'm afraid they'll stampede it.

Turkey? Quiz the lay reader who had dined that day on corned beef. Oh, of course. Mush was what they were intended to have, admitted flame. Piles and piles of mush. Extra piles and piles of mush, I should judge, because it was Christmas Day. But don't you think mush does seem a bit dull? She questioned appealingly.

For Christmas Day? Oh, I did think a turkey would taste so good. It certainly would, conceded the lay reader. So if you'd help me, wheedled Flame, it would be well worth staying blindfolded for, of course, I shall have to stay blindfolded. But I can't see a little of the floor, she admitted. Though I couldn't, of course, break my promise to my mother by seeing you. No, certainly not, admitted the lay-reader.

Otherwise, murmured Flame with a faint gesture towards the door. I will help you, said the lay-reader. Where is your hand? fumbled Flame. Here, attested the lay-reader. "'Lead us to the dogs,' commanded Flame. "'Now the captain of a ship feels genuinely obligated it would seem to go down with his ship if tragic circumstances so insist. But he never, so far as I've ever heard, felt the slightest obligation whatsoever to go

down with another captain's ship, to be martyred in short for any job, not distinctly his own. so bertrand lorello who for the cause he served wouldn't have hesitated an instant probably to be torn by hindoo lions devoured by south sea cannibals fallen upon by a chapel spire trampled to death even at a church rummage sale saw no conceivable reason at the moment for being etchedon by dogs at a purely social function even groping through a balsam scented darkness with one hand clasping the thrilling fingers of a lovely young girl this distaste did not altogether leave him this this mush you speak of he questioned quite abruptly with the dogs as-as nervous as you say so unfortunately liable to stampede don't you think that perhaps a little mush served first a good deal of mush i would say served first might act as a sort of anesthetic somewhere in the past i am almost sure i have read that mush insufficient quantities you understand is really quite a quite an anesthetic very palpably in the darkness he heard a single throaty swallow lead us to the mush said flame in another instant the

door-knob turned in his hand and the cheerful kitchen lamp light, glitter of tinsel, flare of red ribbons, savor of foods, smote sharply on him. Oh, I say, how jolly, cried the lay-reader. Don't let me bump into anything, begged the blindfolded flame, still holding tight to his hand. Oh, I say, Miss Flame, kindled the entranced lay-reader. It's you that look the jolliest. All in white that way?

I've never seen you wear that. church have I?" This is a pinafore, confided Flame coolly. A bungalow apron, the fashion papers call it. No, you've never seen me wear this to church." Oh, said the lay reader. Get the mush, said Flame. The what? asked the lay reader.

It's there on the table by the window, gestured, Flame. Please set all four dishes on the floor. Each dish, of course, and a separate corner, ordered Flame. There is a reason. And then open the parlor door. Open the parlor door? questioned the lay-reader. It was no mere grammatical form of speech, but a real query in the lay-reader's mind. Well, maybe I'd better, conceded Flame, lead me to it. Roused into frenzy by the sound of a stranger's step, a stranger's voice, The four dogs fumed and seethed on the other side of the panel.

Sniff, sniff, snort, the red setter sucked at the crack in the door. Woof, woof, woof, roared the big wolfhound. Slam, bang, slash, slap the Dalmatians crisp, wait. Ye, ye, ye, saying the bulldog. Hush, hush, dogs, implored Flame. This is father's lay reader. Your lay-reader, contradicted the young man gallantly. It was pretty gallant of him, wasn't it, considering everything?

In another instant, four shapes with teeth in them came hurtling through. If Flame had never in her life admired the lay-reader, she certainly would have admired him now, for the sheer cold-blooded foresight which had presaged the inevitable reaction of the dogs upon the mush and the mush upon the dogs. With a single sniff at his heels, a prod of paws in his stomach, the onslaught swered and passed, guzzling from four separate corners of the room issued sounds of joy and fulfillment. With an impulse quite surprising even to herself, flame thrust both hands into the lay reader's clasp. You are nice, aren't you? She quickened.

In an instant of weakness. One hand crept up to the blinding bandage and removed its honor as instantly. Oh, I do wish I could see you, sighed flame. You're so good-looking. Even mother thinks you're so good-looking. Though she does get awfully worked up, of course, about your amorous eyes. Does your mother think I've got amorous eyes? asked the lay reader a bit tersely.

Behind his spectacles as he spoke, the arb is in question softened and glowed like some rare exotic bloom under glass. Does your mother think I've got amorous eyes? Oh, yes, said Flame. And your father? Drawled the lay reader. Why, father says, of course, you've got amorous eyes, confided Flame with the faintest possible tinge of surprise at even being asked such a question. That's the funny thing about Mother and Father, chuckled Flame. They're always saying the same thing, and meaning something entirely different by it.

Why, when Mother says with her mouth all pursed up, I have every reason to believe that Mr. Lorello is engaged to the daughter of the rector in his former parish? Father just puts back his head in howls and said, Why, of course, Mr. Lorello is engaged to the daughter of the rector in his former perish. All lay readers— In the sudden hush that ensued, a faint sense of uneasiness flickered through Flames's shoulders. "'Is it you that have hushed, or the dogs?' she asked.

"'The dogs,' said the lay-reader. Very cautiously, absolutely honorably. Flame turned her back to the lay-reader and lifted the bandage just far enough to prove the lay reader's assertion. Bulging with mush, the four dogs, lay at rest on rounding sides, with limp legs straddling, or crouched like lions' heads on paws, with limpid eyes blinking above yawning mouths. Oh! Crooned, flame!

How sweet! Only, of course, with what's to follow, she regretted thriftily. It's an awful waste of mush. Excelsior warmed in the oven would have served. just as well. At the threat of a shadow across her eyeball she jerked the bandage back into place. Now, Mr. Lorello, she suggested Blithely, if you'll get the Bibles." Bibles?

Stiffened the lay reader. Bibles? Why, really, Miss Flame? I couldn't countenance any sort of mock service, even just for quaintness, even for Christmas quaintness. Mock service? Puzzled Flame? Bibles.

Oh, I don't want you to preach out of them. She hastened perfectly amiably to explain. All I want them for is to plump up the chairs. The seats you see are too low for the dogs. Oh, I suppose dictionaries would do, she compromised reluctantly. Only dictionaries are always so scarce. Obediently the lay reader raked the parlor bookcases for plump-uppable books. with real dexterity he built chemistries on sermons and ancient poems on cook-books till the desired heights were reached for a single minute more flame took another peep at the table set a chair for yourself directly opposite me she ordered

for sheer hilarious satisfaction her feet began to dance and her hands to clap and whenever i really feel obliged to look she sparkled you'll just have to leave the table that's all and now appraisingly her muffled eye swept the shining vista perfect she triumphed perfect then quite abruptly the eager mouth wilted why why i've forgotten the carving night and fork, she cried out in real distress. Oh, how stupid of me! Arguously but without avail, she searched through all the drawers and covers of the Rattlepane kitchen. A single alternative occurred to her. You'll have to go over to my house and get them, Mr. Lorello.

She said, were you ever in my kitchen or in my pantry? No, admitted the lay reader. Well, you'll have to climb in through the wind. No, some way, worried Flame. I've mislaid my key somewhere here among all these dishes and boxes. And the pantry, she explained very explicitly. Is the third door on the right as you enter? You'll see a chest of drawers.

Open the second of them. Or maybe you'd better look through them all. Only please, please hurry, imploringly the little head lifted. If I hurry enough, said the lay reader quite impulsively. May I have a kiss when I get back? A kiss! Who did Flame? In the curve of her cheek a dimple opened suddenly.

Well, maybe, said Flame. As though the word were wings the lay-reader snatched his hat and sped out into the night. It was astonishing how all the warm, howcy air seemed to rush out with him, and all the shivery frost rush back. End of part two. Part three of Peace on Earth Goodwill to Dogs by Eleanor Howell Abbott. This Libravox recording is in the public domain. Part three.

It was astonishing how all the warm house he air seemed to rush out with him and all the shivery frost rush back. A little bit listlessly, Flame dragged down the bandage from her eyes. "'It must be the creeks on the stairs that make it so awfully lonely all of a sudden,' argued Flame. "'It must be because the dog snore so. No mere man could make it so empty.' With a precipitous nudge of the memory she dashed to the door and hallowed to the fast retreating figure, "'Oh, Bertrand, Bertrand,' she called.

"'I got sort of mixed up. "'It's the second door on the left, "'and if you don't find them there, "'you'd better go up in Mother's room "'and turn out the silver chest. "'Hurry!' "'Rallying back to the bright Christmas kitchen "'for the real business at hand,

"'an accusing blush rose to the young spot "'where the dimple had been. "'Oh, shucks!' Perry Flame. "'I kissed a bishop before I was five. "'What's a lay-were. reader. As one humanely willing to condone the future as well as the past, she rolled up her white sleeves without further introspection and dragged out from the protecting shadow of the sink, the humpiest box, which had so excited her emotions at home in an earlier hour of the day.

Crackling under her eager fingers, the clumsy cover slid off, exposing once more to her enrapt enraptured gaze, the gay-colored muslin layer of animal masks, layering fatuously up at her. Only with her hand across her mouth did she keep from crying out. Very swiftly her glance traveled from the grinning Muslim faces before her to the solemn fur faces on the other side of the room. The hand across her mouth tightened. Why?

It's something like. like creation, she giggled. This having to decide which face to give to which animal. As expeditiously as possible, she made her selection. Poor Miss Flora must be tired of being so plain, she thought. I'll give her the first choice of everything. Something really lovely. It can't help resting her. With this kind of idea in mind, she selected for Miss Flora a canary's face. softly yellow, bland as shriekle, its swelling, tender Muslim throat, fairly reeking with the suggestion of innocent song. No one gazing once upon such ornithological purity would ever speak a harsh word again, even to a sparrow.

Nudging Miss Flora cautiously from her sonorous nap, Flame beguiled her with half a donut to her. her appointed chair, boosted her still cautiously to her pinnacle of books, and with various swift adjustments of fasteners, nodding of tie-strings, an extra breathing-hole jabbed through the beak, slipped the canary's beautiful blonde countenance over Miss Flores' frankly grizzled mug. For a single terrifying instant, Miss Flores crinkled sides tightened, a snarl-like Ripped silk slipped through her straining lungs. Then, once convinced that the mask was not a gas-box, she accepted the liberty with reasonable sang-fro,

and sat blinking, beatily out through the canary's yellow-rimmed-eye sockets, with frank curiosity towards such proceedings as were about to follow. It was easy to see she was accustomed to sitting in chairs. For the wolfhound, Flame chose a giraffe's head. Certain anatomical similarities seemed to make the choice wise. With a long, vividly striped stockinette neck, wrinkling like a mouse-quitere glove,

the neat small head that so closely fitted his own neat small head, the tweaked interocative ears, beautiful, lovely, the wolfhound, reared up majestically in his own chair. He also, once convinced that the mask was not a gas-box, resigned himself to the inevitable, and, corporeally independent of such vain props as chemistries or sermons, lulled his fine height against the mahogany chairback. To Blunderblot, the trim Dalmatian, flame assigned the parrot's head,

arrogantly beaked, gorgeously variegated, altogether querulous. For Lopsy, the crafty setter, she selected a white rabbit's artless pink-eared visage. Yet out of the whole box of masks, it had been the Bengal Tigers fiercely bewiskered visage that had fascinated flame the most. Regretfully, from its more or less nondescript companions, she picked up the Bingle Tiger now and pulled at its real bristle whiskers. In one of the chairs a dog stirred quite irrelevantly. Cocking her own head toward the woodshed,

Flame could not be perfectly sure whether she heard a twinge of cat or a twinge of conscience. The unflinching glare of the Bengal tiger only served to increase her self-reproach. After all, reasoned Flame, It would be easy enough to set another place. and a few pile of extra books. I'm almost sure I saw a black plush bag in the parlor. If the cat could be put in something like a black plush bag, something perfectly enveloping like that,

so that not a single line of its figure could be observed, and if it had a new head given it, a perfectly sufficient head, like a bingle tiger, I see no reason why. In five minutes the deed was accomplished. Its lovely, sinuous figure reduced to the stolid contour of a black plush workbag. Its small, uneasy head thrust into the roomy muslin cranium of the Bingle Tiger. The astonished cat found herself slumping grogily on a great teetering pile of books,

staring down, as best she might, through the Bingle Tiger's ear, at the weirdest assemblage of animals which any domestic cat of her acquaintance had ever been forced to contemplate coincidental with the appearance of a cat a faint thrill passed through the rest of the company nothing very much no more no less indeed than passes through any company at the introduction of a purely extraneous matter from the empty plate which she had commandeered as a temperament pillow, the yellow canary lifted an interrogative beak. That was all. At flames left, the white-haired rabbit emitted an incongruous bark, scarcely worth reporting. Across the table, the giraffe thumped a white plummy tail.

Thoughtfully, the parrot's hooked nose slanted slightly to one side. Oh, I wish Bertrand would come, fretted flame. Maybe this time he'll notice my crisp. crossing sign, she chuckled with sudden triumph. He-he, talk about surprises. Very diplomatically, as she spoke, she broke another donut in two and drew all the dog's attention to herself. Almost hysterical with amusement,

she surveyed the scene before her. Well, at least we can have a grace before the preacher comes, she laughed. A step on the gravel walk startled her suddenly. In a flash she had jerked down the blind folding handkerchief across her eyes again, and, folding her hands and the doughnut before her, burst softly into paraphrase. Now we sit us down to eat, thrice our share of flesh and sweet. If we should burst before we through, oh, what in dogdom shall we do? Thus it was that the master of the house, returning unexhawning,

expectedly to his unfamiliar domicile, stumbled across a scene that might have shaken the reason of a less sober young man. Startled first by the unwanted illumination from his kitchen windows, and second by the unprecedented aroma of fir balsam that greeted him even through the keyhole of his new front door, his feelings may well be imagined when, groping through the dingy hall, he first behaved. the gallows-like structure reared in the kitchen doorway. My God! he ejaculated. Barrett is getting ready to hang himself.

Gone mad, probably, or something. Curdled with horror, he forced himself to the object, only to note, with convulsive relief, but increasing bewilderment, the cheerful phrasing and ultimate intent of the structure itself. Christmas crossing. he repeated blankly. Look out for surprises.

Shop, cook, and listen? With his hand across his eyes, he reeled back slightly against the wall. Is it I that have gone mad? He gasped. A little uncertain whether he was afraid of what he was about to see or whether what he was about to see

ought to be afraid of him. He craned his neck as best he could round the corner of the huge buffet that blocked the kitchen vista. A fresh bewilderment met his eyes. Where he had once seen cobwebs flapping grayly across the chimney breast, loomed now the gay worsted recommendation that dogs specially should be considered in the Christmas season. Throwing all caution aside, he passed the buffet and plunged into the kitchen. Oh, do hurry, cried an eager, young voice.

I thought my hair would be white before you came. Like a man paralyzed, he stopped short in his tracks to stare at the scene before him. The long, bright table, the absolutely formal food, a blindfolded girl, a perfectly strange blindfolded girl, with her dark hair forty years this side of white, begging him to hurry? A black velvet bag surmounted by a tiger's head, stirring strangely in a chair piled high with books.

Seated next to the black velvet bag, a canary as big as a turkey gobbler, a giraffe stepping suddenly forward with dog paws thrust into his soup plate. A white rabbit, heavily wreathed in holly, rousing cautiously from his cushions a parrot with the twitching black and white short-haired tail an empty chair facing the girl an empty chair facing the girl if this is madness thought delcote quite precipitously i am at least the master of the asylum in another instant with a prodigious stride he had slipped into the vacant seat "'So sorry to have kept you waiting,' he murmured. "'At the first sound of that unfamiliar voice.

"'Flame yanked the handkerchief from her eyes, "'took one blank glance at the stranger, "'and burst forth into a muffled, "'but altogether, blood-curdling scream. "'Oh! Oh!' said the scream. "'As though waiting only for that one signal "'to break the spell of their enchantment, The canary leaped upward and grabbed the bingled tiger by his muslin nose.

The white rabbit sprang to point on the cooling turkey, and the red and green parrot fell to the floor in a desperate effort to settle once and for all with the black spot that itched so impulsively on his left shoulder. For a moment only, in comparative quiet, the concerned struggled with the concerned. Then, true to all dog's psychology, absolutely indisputable, absolutely unalterable, the nun-concerned leaped in upon the nun-concerned. Half on his guard, but wholly on his itch, the jostled parrot shot like a catapult across the floor. Lost to all sense of honor or table manners, the benign-faced giraffe with his benign face

still towering blandly in the air, burst through his own neck with a most curious anatomical effect, locked his teeth in the parrot's gay throat, and rolled with him under the table in mortal combat. Round and round the room spun the yellow canary and the black plush bag. Retreating as best she could from her muslin nose, The Bengal Tiger, or rather that which was within the Bengal Tiger, waged her war for freedom, ripping like a chicken through its shell,

she succeeded at last in hatching one front paw and one hind paw into action. Wallowing, stumbling, rolling, yowling, she humped from mantelpiece to chair-top and from box to table. Loyally, the rabbit-eared setter took up the chase. Malled in the scuffle he ran with his meek face upside down, Lost to all reason, defiant for all morale, He proceeded to flush the game. Dish pans clattered, stools tipped over, pictures banged on the walls. From her terrorized perch on the back of her chair,

Flame watched the fracas with dilated eyes. Hunched in the hug of his own arms, The stranger sat rocking himself to and fro in uncontrollable choking mirth. Ribled mirth was what Flame called it. Stop! She begged stop it. Somebody stop it! It was not until the black plush bag at bay had ripped a red streak down Miss Flora's avid nose, that the stranger rose to interfere. Very definitely then with quick D. incisive words, he separated the immediate combatants, and ordered the other dogs into

submission. "'Here, you, demon, direful,' he addressed the white wolfhound. "'Drop that Orion!' he shouted to the Irish setter. "'Cut it out, John,' he thundered at the coach-dog. "'Their names are beautiful, lovely!' cried Flame, and Lopsy and Blunderblot. With his hand on the wolfhound's collar, the stranger stopped and stared up with frank astonishment, not to say resentment, at the girl's interference. Their names are what, he said?

Something in the special intonation of the question infuriated flame. Maybe she thought his mouth scornful, his narrowing eyes. Goodness knows what she thought of his suddenly narrowing eyes. In an instant she had jumped from her retreat to the floor. who are you anyway she demanded how dare you come here like this budding into my party and-and spoiling my discipline with the dogs who are you i say with demon direful alias beautiful lovely tugging wildly at his restraint the stranger's scornful mouth turned precipitously up instead of down who am i he said why no one's special at all except just the master of the house. What? gasped, Flame.

Earl Delcote, bowed the stranger. With a little hand that trembled perfectly palpably, Flame reached back to the arm of the big carved chair for support. Why? Why, but Mr. Delcote is an old man, she gasped. I'm almost sure he's an old man. The smile on Delcote's mouth spread suddenly to his eyes. Not yet, thank God, he bowed. With a panic-stricken glance at doors' windows cracks the chimney-pipe itself,

flame sank limply down in her seat again, and gestured towards the empty place opposite her. "'Have a chair,' she stammered. Great tears welled suddenly to her eyes. Oh, I know I oughtn't to be here, she struggled. It's perfectly awful. I haven't the slightest right, not the slightest. It's the cheekiest thing that any girl in the world ever did.

But your butler said, and he did so want to go away, and I did so love your dogs, and I did so want to make one Christmas in the world. world just exactly the way I wanted it, and mother and father will be crazy, and, without a single glance at anything except herself, the master of the house slipped back into his chair. Have a heart, he said. Flame did not accept this suggestion. With a very severe frown and downcast eyes, she sat staring at the table. It seemed a very cheerless table suddenly with all the dogs in various stages of disheveled finery

grouped blatantly around their master's chair. I can at least have my cat, she thought, my faithful cat. In another instant, she had slipped from the table, extracted poor pusses, from a clutter of pans in the back of a cupboard, stripped the last shred of masquerade from her outraged form, and brought her back growling and bristling, to perch on one arm of the high-backed chair. There, said Flame.

Glancing up from this innocent triumph, she encountered the eyes of the master of the house, fixed speculatively on the big turkey. I'm afraid everything is very cold, she confided with a distinctly formal regret. "'Not for anything,' laughed Delcote quite suddenly. "'Would I have kept you waiting if I had only known?' Two spots of color glowed hotly in the girl's cheeks.

"'It was not for you I was waiting,' she said coldly. "'No,' teased Delcote. "'You astonished me. for whom then some incredible white who worse than late isn't going to show up at all heaven sent i consider myself how else could so little a girl have managed so big a turkey there isn't any carving-knife whispered flame the tears were glistening on her cheeks now instead of just in her eyes a less observing man than Delcote, might have thought the tears were really for the carving-knife. What? No carving-knife? He roared imperiously. And the house guaranteed furnished? Very furiously he began to hunt all around the kitchen in the most impossible places.

Oh, it's furnished all right, quivered flame. It's just chalk full of dead things. pressed flowers and old plush bags and pressed flowers and and pressed flowers. Great heavens, groaned Delcote, and I came here to forget dead things. Your butler said you'd had misfortunes, murmured Flame. Miss fortunes? Rallied Delcote. I should think I had. in a single year I've lost health, money,

most everything I own in the world except my man and my dogs. They're good dogs, testified, Flame. And the doctors sent me here for six months, persisted Delcote, before he'll even hear of my plunging into things again. Six months is a good long time, said Flame. If you turn the hymns, we can, could make yellow curtains for the parlor in no time at all. We?

Stammered Delcote. Mother, said Flame. It's a long time since any dogs lived in the Rattlepane house. Rattlebrain house? Rital Brain House, bridled Delcote. Rattle Payne House corrected Flame. A little bit worriedly, Delcote returned to his seat. I shall have to rend the turkey instead of carve it, he said.

"'Rend it,' acquiesced, Flame. "'In the midst of the rending, "'a dark frown appeared between Delcote's eyes. "'These—these guests that you were expecting?' he questioned. "'Oh, stop!' cried Flame. "'Dreadful as I am, I never, never would have dreamed of inviting guests.' "'This guest, then,' frowned Delcote. "'Was he—'

"'Oh, you mean Bertrand?' flushed flame oh truly i didn't invite him he just butted in same as you same as i stammered delcote well floundered flame well you know what i mean and With peculiar intentness, the master of the house, fixed his eyes on the knotted white handkerchief, which Flame had thrown across the corner of her chair. And is this Bertrand person so dazzling, he questioned, that human eye may not look safely upon his countenance? Bertrand, dazzling, protested Flame.

Oh, no, he's really quite dull. It was only, she explained with sudden friendliness, it was only that I had promised Mother not to see him, so, of course, when he butted in, I, Oh, relax the master of the house. With a precipitous flippancy of manners, which did not conform at all to the somewhat tragic austerity of his face, he snatched up his knife and fart,

and thumped joyously on the table with the handles of them. and some people talk about a country village being dull in the wintertime, he chuckled, with a dog's masquerade and a robbery at the rectory all happening in the same evening. Grabbing her cat in her arms, Flame jerked her chair back from the table. A robbery at the rectory? She gasped. Why, why I'm the rectory, I must go home at once. Oh, shucks, shrug the master.

of the house. It's all over now. But the people at the railroad station were certainly buzzing about it as I came through. "'B buzzing about it?' articulated flame with some difficulty. Expeditiously, the master of the house resumed his rending of the turkey. "'Are you really from the rectory?' he questioned. "'How amusing. Well, there's nothing really you could do about it now. The constable and his prisoner are already on their wage of the county seat, wherever that may be. And a freshly burgled house is rather a creepy place for a young girl to return to all alone. Your parents are away, I believe.

Constable? Babbled Flame, quite idiotically. Yes, the regular constable was off christpacing somewhere, it seems, so he put a substitute on his job. a stranger from somewhere. Some substitute that. No mulling over hot toddies on Christmas night for him. He saw the marauder crawling in through the rectory window.

He saw him fumbling now to the left, now to the right, all through the front hall. He followed him up the stairs to a closet where the silver was evidently kept. He caught the man red-handed, as it were, or rather white-handed, flushed the master of the house for some quite unaccountable reason. To be perfectly accurate, he explained conscientiously. He was caught with a pair of, of, delicately he spelled out the word, with a pair of C-O-R-S-E-T-S rolled up in his hand, but inside the roll it seemed there was a solid silver, very allowed,

carving set, which the parish had recently presented. The wretch was just unrolling it them when he was caught. "'That was Bertrand,' said Flame. "'My father's lay-reader.' "'It was the man's turn now to jump to his feet.' "'What?' he cried. "'I sent him for the carving-knife,' said Flame. "'What?' repeated the man.

consternation versus hilarity went racing suddenly like a cat and dog combat across his eyes. Yes, said Flame. From the outside door the sound of furious knocking occurred suddenly. That sounds to me like, like parents knocking, shivered Flame. It sounds to me like an escaped lay reader, said her host, With a single impulse they both started for the door. "'Don't worry, little girl,' whispered the young stranger in the dark hall. "'I'll try not to,' quivered flame.

They were both right, it seemed. It was parents and the lay-reader. All three, breathless, all three excited, all three reproachful. They swept into the warm, balsam-scented rattlepane house. with a gust of frost, a threat of disaster. Flame, sighed her father. Flame, scolded her mother. Flame? implored the lay-reader.

What a pretty name, beamed the master of the house. Pray be seated, everybody. He gestured graciously to left and right, shoving one dog expeditiously under the table with his foot, while he yanked another out of a chair with his least, gesticulating hand. This is certainly a very great pleasure, I assure you, he affirmed distinctly to Miss Flamond Norris.

Returning, quite unexpectedly, to my new house this lonely Christmas evening, he explained very definitely to the Reverend Flamond Norris. I can't express to you what it means to me to find this pleasant gathering of neighbors waiting here to welcome me. and when I think of the effort you must have made to get here, Mr. Bertrand, he beamed. A young man of all your obligations and complications? Pleasant gathering of neighbors? questioned Mrs. Norris with some emotion.

Oh, I forgot. Depreciated the master of the house with real concern. Your Christmas season is not, of course, as inherently pleasant as one might wish. I was told at the railroad station how you and Mr. Norris had been called away by the illness of a relative. We were called away, confided Mrs. Norris with increasing asperity, called away at considerable inconvenience by a very sick relative to receive the present of a piebald pony. Oh, goody, quick in flame and collapsed again under the weight of her mother's mother's son. glance. And then came this terrible telephone message, shuddered her mother, the implied

dishonor of one of your father's most trusted, most trusted associates. I was right in the midst of an interesting book, deplored her father, and Uncle Wally wouldn't lend it. So we borrowed Uncle Wally's new automobile and started right for home, explained her mother. It was at the junction that we made connections with the constable and his prisoner. His victim intercepted the lay-reader coldly. At this interception, everybody turned suddenly and looked at the lay-reader. His mouth was twisted very slightly to one side. It gave him a rather unpleasant snarling expression.

If this expression had been vocal instead of muscular, it would have shocked his hearers. Your father had to go on board the train and identify him, persisted Flames's mother. It was very distressing. The constable was most unwilling to release him. Your father had to use every kind of an argument. Every kind, mused her father. He doesn't even deny being in the house, continued his mother, being in my closet,

being caught with a silver-carving knife and fork in his hand, intercepted the lay-reader hastily. Yet, all this time, he persists, frowned Flames' mother, that there is someone in the world who could give a perfectly good explanation if only—he won't even say he or she, but it—if only it would. something in the stricken expression of her daughter's face brought a sudden flicker of suspicion to the mother's eyes. You don't know anything about this, do you flame? She demanded.

Is it remotely possible that after your promise to me, your sacred promise to me, the whole structure of the home, of mutual confidence, of all the future, itself, crackled and toppled in her voice. To the lay reader's face, and right through the lay reader's face to the face of the master of the house, Flames' glance went homing with an unaccountable impulse. With one elbow leaning casually on the mantelpiece, his narrowed eyes faintly inscrutable, faintly smiling, it seemed suddenly to the young master of the house, that he had been waiting all his discouraged years for just that glance.

His heart gave the queerest jump. Flames' face turned suddenly very pink. Like a person in a dream, she turned back to her mother. There was a smile on her face, but the smile was the smile of a dreaming person. No, mother, she said, I haven't seen Bertrand today. why you are looking right at him now protested her exasperated mother with a gentle murmur of descent flames father stepped forward and laid his arm across the young girl's shoulder she she may be looking at him he said but i'm almost perfectly sure that she doesn't see him why whatever in the world do you mean demanded his wife whatever in the world does anybody mean if there was only another woman here a mature sane woman a with a flare of accusation

she turned from flame to the master of the house this miss flora that my daughter spoke of where is she i insist on seeing her please summon her instantly crossing genially to the table the master of the house reached down and dragged out the bulldog by the brindle's of her neck the scratch on her nose was bleeding slightly and one eye was closed this is miss flora he said indignantly flames mother glanced at the dog and then from her daughter's face to the face of the young man again and you call that a lady she demanded not technically admitted the young man For an instant, a perfectly tense silence reigned. Then from under a shadowy basket the cat crept out, shining, sinuous with extended paw,

and began to pat a sprig of holly cautiously along the floor. Yielding to the reaction, flame bent down suddenly, and hugging the wolfhound's head to her breast, buried her face in the soft, sweet shagginess. "'Not sanitary, mother,' she protested. "'Why? "'There is sanitary as violets.' "'As though dreaming he relate to church

"'and had forgotten his vestments, "'flames' father reached out nervously "'and draped a great string of ground pine "'stole like around his neck. "'We all broke in the master of the house "'quite irrelevantly, "'seemed to have experienced a slight twilight, whinge of irritability the past few minutes.

Hunger, I've no doubt. So suppose we all sit down together to this sumptuous, if somewhat chilled, repast. After the soup, certainly, even after very cold soup, all explanations I'm sure will be cheerfully and satisfactorily exchanged. Miss Flame, I know, has a most amusing story to tell, and, oh, yes! rallied flame, and it's almost all about being blindfolded and sending poor Mr. Larello. So if by any chance Mr. Bertrand interrupted the master of the house a bit abruptly, "'you happen to have the carving-knife and fork still on your person?

I thought I saw a white string hanging.' "'I have,' said the lay-reader, with his first real grin. With great formality, the master of the house drew back a chair and bowed Flames' mother to it. Then, suddenly, the red setter lifted his sensitive nose in the air, and the spotted Dalmatian bristled faintly across the ridge of his back. Through the whole room, it seemed, swept a curious, cottony sense of something about to happen. Was it that a sound hushed, or that a hushed decided suddenly to be a sound? With a little sharp catch of her breath,

flame dashed to the window and swung the sash upward, where once had breathed the drab-dusty smell of frozen grass and mud, quickened suddenly a curious metallic dampness like the smell of new pennies. Mr. Delcote, she called. In an instant his slender form silhouetted darkly with hers in the open window against the eternal mystery and majesty of a Christmas night. And then the snow came. End of Part 3. End of Peace on Earth Goodwill to Dogs by Eleanor Howell Abbott.