“You don’t intend me to understand,” said he, after a minute’s steady scrutiny, “that this is a photograph of actual children?”

Miss Ruston nodded.  Her face glowed with enthusiasm over her work.  “Indeed it is.  Flesh and blood children—­Rupert and Rodney Trumbull.  And it’s really the night before Christmas, too.  They were not acting the part—­it was the real thing.”

Burns continued to study the picture—­of two small boys in their night-clothes, standing before a chimney-piece, looking up at their stockings, at that last wondering, enchanted moment before they should lay hands upon the mysteries before them.  The glow of the firelight was upon them, the shadows behind held the small sturdy figures in an exquisitely soft embrace.  It was such a photograph as combines the workings of the most delicate art with the unconscious posing of absolute realism.

Burns looked from the picture to his wife’s face.  “We must have one of Bobby like that,” said he.

Ellen agreed, her eyes meeting her friend’s over his head.  The guest laid another print before him.  “Since you like fireplace effects,” she explained.  Then she gave the Christmas-eve picture to Miss Mathewson, smiling as Amy, returning the print she had been studying, said softly, “It is wonderful work, Miss Ruston.  I shall want one of my mother like this.”

“You shall have it,” Miss Ruston promised.

Burns exclaimed with pleasure over the presentment of a little old lady, knitting before a fire, a faint smile on her face, as if she were thinking of lovely things as she worked.  As in the other picture the shadows were soft and hazy, only the surfaces touched by the fireglow showing with distinctness, the whole effect almost illusive, yet giving more of the human touch than any clear and distinct details could possibly have done.

“That is Granny,” said Miss Ruston, a gentle note in her eager voice.  “My little piece of priceless porcelain which I guard with all the defences at my command.  Tell me, Dr. Burns, I shall not be bringing her into any danger if I put her in the little old house, when it is made right?”

“If you are thinking of bringing this old lady here,” said he, emphatically, his eyes on the picture again, “you must let me look the place over thoroughly for you first.”

“But I’ve engaged it!” cried his wife’s friend, in dismay.

“That doesn’t matter.  You will call it all off again, if I don’t find the place can be made fit,” said he.  “Old ladies like this shall not be risked in doubtful places, no matter how quaint and artistic the background, not while I am on hand to prevent.”

Miss Ruston looked at Mrs. Burns. “Is this what he is like?” said she, in dismay.  “I didn’t reckon with him!”

“You will have to reckon with me now,” said Red Pepper Burns, with coolness.

“But the owner says it can be made perfectly tight.  And I have to go back to-night!”