Some of her ways and some of her sayings were pretty good, they guessed, and they wouldn’t forget her, although they didn’t suppose that they’d ever meet again.  Suddenly Win realized that they had been kind and pleasant, so far as it had lain in their power, and she, staying on, would miss the faces that were gone.  She choked a little over these men’s appreciation of the difference between her “ways” and those of some other girls, and was half ashamed that it should surprise her.

“I expect I’ll have to take to the sea again,” sighed the ex-steward.  “I wanted a little more time on land, but it ain’t to be.  Don’t forget, you and your friend Sadie, that I can get you jobs on one of the big greyhounds.”

“What a Christmas Eve!” Win said to herself aloud, as she almost fell into her room at eleven-thirty.  “In half an hour more it will be Christmas, and I don’t suppose there’s one soul with a thought for me in all Europe or America!”

But on the ugly red cover (warranted not to betray dirt) of the rickety bed were two parcels—­a big box and a little one.  Somebody must have been thinking of her, after all!

Revived, she cut the strings on both boxes and opened the little one first, on the childlike principle of “saving the best thing for the last.”

“Lilies of the valley!  Why, how lovely!  Who could have sent them?” There was no name, and a question asked itself in Win’s mind that spoiled all her pleasure—­but only for a moment.  She unwrapped the big box, and on the cover (which looked curiously familiar) she read, evidently scrawled in furious haste, with pencil:  “From Ursus to Lygia, with respectful regards and wishes for a merry Christmas.  Also please accept lilies.”

(Miss Leavitt had testified her admiration for the blond giant by sending him a box of her name flowers, bought with some of the “change” Mr. Logan had told her to keep.  The admired one had promptly “passed them on.”  But Win did not know this, and he didn’t see why she ever should.  Anyhow, flowers were flowers!)

The girl was so pleased to know that the lilies came from Ursus, not another, that she could almost have kissed them—­but not quite.  Then, in her relief, she lifted the cover of the large box and gave a cry which was not unlike a sob.  There, in silk and lace, with eyes closed and smiling lips, lay Little Sister.

“Oh, his watch—­his presentation watch!” she gurgled.  And sitting on the bed, with the great doll in her arms, she let fall on the unresponsive head a few tears of grief and gratitude.  She understood everything now, even the “big bluff.”

What had been or had not been in Miss Leavitt’s pay envelope Win did not know until the morning after Christmas, that strangest Christmas of her life, which she spent resting quietly in bed.  Returning next day to Toyland, where everything looked half asleep in the early gloom, she saw the glitter of red hair.