I waited for him, though he hadn't been home the night before. It was Christmas; he would come. After I was dressed, in a dark red frock that set off my funny eyes and made me look older than my twelve years, after my hair was fixed in prim curls down my back and tied with a crimson ribbon, I made my way up to Marcelin's room.

His room is like him: splendid, but unornamented. Like the rest of our house, it is grand and beautiful, but there is nothing in it that isn't strictly necessary. Whenever he stays away very long, sometimes I go there so as not to miss him too badly.

I sat down on the end of the bed to wait, thoughtfully; and there I remained for perhaps twenty minutes. Toward the end of this time, one of the maids poked her head in. She peered around for a moment, then caught sight of me.

"Oh! Mademoiselle Chantal. Your mother was asking for you . . ." She glanced around again.

I shook my head. "He hasn't been here, Yvette. I'm waiting here till he comes in."

Yvette nodded.

"I'll tell madame, shall I?" I like Yvette; she is never prissy. She hesitated, and blushed; she blushes easily. Then shyly she produced a little bunch of holly, tied with a red ribbon, from her apron pocket. "From Marcelle," she explained. Marcelle is her daughter, just six years old, and though she never said so, I know Yvette named her for my brother. "Will you give this to him, mademoiselle, when he comes in?"

"Of course I will," I said, smiling. "I know he'll be pleased."

Yvette blushed still deeper, dropped a curtsy, and withdrew. I put the holly carefully on the night-table, where it would be safe.

Shortly after this, Marcelin came in. He looked tired and beautiful and defeated; and he did not see me at first, as he leaned heavily on the doorjamb. I jumped up.

"Oh, Marcelin!"

He noticed me then, and smiled. He is terribly handsome, my brother, tall and fair like the rest of our family -- except me -- and most of the time he is serious, stern, set apart; but when he smiles he is wonderful. He smiled at me, and he looked younger.

"Chantoinette," he said. His pet name for me, he that never gives pet names to anyone or anything. I ran to him; he hugged me, picked me up and swung me as if I were Marcelle's age.

"Chantoinette! how pretty you are." Setting me down, he looked at me studiously, making me giggle self-consciously. "I never see you anymore."

"I never see you either," I said. He sighed, and passed one hand across his face. He was pale this evening, and his clothes and hair were damp. "You're soaking!"

"Not really. It's snowing out." He shook his head. "I suppose I should change."

"I'll go then," I said, as I always do, and as always he said, "No, stay and talk to me, Chantal." He drew the screen over and went behind it, and I sat on the bed and talked to that.

"I wasn't sure you'd be home tonight."

"Neither was I. But I promised you. So here I am."

"Yes, here you are. I'm very glad. I don't know how I'd survive Christmas at Grandmama's without you. Cousin Michel." I hated my cousin Michel. When I was seven he'd put a frog down my back in church and made me shriek. I have never forgiven him that.

"I'll protect you from Michel."

"And I will protect you from Dominique." Domi, Michel's sister, was sixteen and perfectly silly over my brother.

"For which I am forever in your debt."

"Father's angry with you."

"I know," shortly.

"Marcelin."

"Yes?"

I felt that I must ask him this question, though I was a little afraid to, and that now was the safest time.

"Are you a revolutionary?"

There was a long pause.

"Yes." Marcelin emerged in clean dry clothes and stockinged feet, sat down beside me on the bed, and fixed me with his blue unafraid gaze. "They call it that. But don't worry, ma petite, it isn't catching, more's the pity."

I met his eyes. "I'm not Father."

"Good," said Marcelin. "One of him is enough."

I grinned. "True."

"Ah, Chantal." He sighed. "Sometimes I think you are my only sister. Julie is a perfect copy of her mother" Marcelin never calls her his mother, or Mama "and Elise is only a baby yet and will likely end up the same. But you -- you I can talk to, you have some sense, you think for yourself!"

This outburst surprised me a bit, but touched me.

"And you are my only brother, so we're even," I said, and hugged him again. Marcelin is nice to hug; he feels real. When I hug Mama I might as well put my arms round a doll.

He noticed the sprig of holly then. I explained about Marcelle, and a glint of humour touched his eyes. He picked it up, regarded it for a moment.

"Splendid," he said, and tucked it into his buttonhole. "Now I look respectable."

It was Mama's word and she used it often. I giggled.

"Well, we'd better go down," I said.

"And get it over with?"

"I wasn't going to say that."

He put his shoes on, and then took me by the hand, and we went out together, along the dim hallway, and halfway down the stairs. There on the landing, Mama caught sight of us.

"There you are! We've been waiting for you." Sure enough, they were all there -- Father extremely correct, as festive as was proper and no more so; Julie in blue and Elise in yellow, as I was in red. We have worn those colours on all important occasions for years -- because, Marcelin once said rather nastily, Mama couldn't tell her daughters apart otherwise.

Mama herself was in green, green the colour of ivy or envy, her golden hair piled up in artful ringlets, very lovely next to Father, who looked cross. Probably he and Marcelin had already quarrelled.

"Sorry, Mama," I said meekly as we came down the stairs.

"You haven't lost your hair ribbon again, have you?"

"Mama!" As if I were a child! "Of course not."

"You do lose it, Chantal, frequently . . ."

"I don't."

"Don't contradict. Marcelin, let me see you . . ." She trailed off, studying him. "Well, at least you look respectable."

Marcelin and I exchanged a secret, amused glance.

"What's this?" Mama poked daintily at the sprig of greenery in his buttonhole.

"A present from a lady," said my brother, straight-faced. And before she could think of something to say, "Right then, are we all ready? Let's go. Mlle. Chantoinette, here is your cloak."

I hid my grin.

*   *   *   *   *

It was indeed snowing, a light feathery fall when we set out, but by the time we got to Grandmama's it was falling heavily. The wind blew it in thick wet gusts like miniature blizzards. Julie made a great show of picking up her skirts and keeping her head covered -- "You're not made of sugar, you won't melt," Grandmama would say -- and Elise made an equal show of nearly falling into a drift.

Aunt Josette swept me into a scented hug almost before I was in the door, and Elise and Mama after me, bubbling with endearments. "So good to see you -- oh, but Elise, how you've grown --"

Then Marcelin stepped through the doorway. Aunt Josette fell silent suddenly. I realized she hadn't been expecting him. Of course not; why should she? He hadn't been home last Christmas, nor the year before that.

My poor aunt managed a smile for him. "Why, look who's here," she said, rather lamely.

And Marcelin, very calm, very gentle: "Hello, Auntie. Merry Christmas." He glanced past her, to where Dominique stood in the corner, pale and sweet-faced as a wax doll, gazing at him.

"Hello, Marcelin," she murmured.

"Hello, Domi," said Marcelin rather curtly. He has no patience with Domi and her calf's eyes.

After a minute, Aunt Josette began to chatter again, and we all went in after her.

Grandmama was sitting and talking to Aunt Blanche, tiny and regal in an enormous armchair. She looked up sharply as we crowded in.

"Well, well. Look what the storm blew in."

"Hello, Grandmama," my sisters and I chorused, and Mama said, "Merry Christmas, Mother. How are you?"

"Well enough, dear, thank you. --And who is this?"

Dead silence again. The aunts looked uneasy, as if afraid she had just lapsed into senility. Mama actually fidgeted.

"You know Marcelin, Mother . . ."

"Oh, indeed," said Grandmama, staring at him appraisingly. "Yes, I suppose I do."

My brother stood quite still and held her gaze. Watching them I had the disconcerting feeling that I wasn't really there at all, that there was no one in the room but the two of them.

"All right," Grandmama murmured after a moment, as if conceding a point. Then she raised her voice, and held out a hand imperiously. "Come here, young man."

With a barely detectable shrug, Marcelin stepped forward.

Grandmama reached up and laid her wrinkly hands on his shoulders. She studied him for a moment longer; then she turned to the rest of us, all looking on mutely. "If you will excuse me, my dears. I want to speak privately with my grandson."

We went, meek as rabbits, leaving her alone with Marcelin.

*   *   *   *   *

I hardly remember how it was then. It was much like other Christmases, gay and colourful and full of talk. The grown-ups talked, leaving us to our own devices. Julie and Domi went off by themselves to giggle and languish in an alcove. I played with Elise, or quarrelled with Michel. It was all very much as always. Presently Marcelin and Grandmama came out and joined the grown-ups.

Before long, though, he had sought me out, and we withdrew together into some quiet place to talk, as we seldom had the chance to do anymore.

It was at the table, as we sat replete and pleased with ourselves, that the thunderbolt struck.

The talk had turned to what we children had been up to, beginning with Elise; and as the grown-ups worked their way up the ladder they wound up at last with the eldest, Marcelin.

Nobody quite liked to mention what he had been doing.

An awkward silence fell. The aunts looked helplessly at each other. Father glowered at no one in particular.

Then Grandmama, all gracious calm, broke the silence. "And you, Marcelin? What has kept you away from us the past three years?"

It was Mama, sitting beside him, who answered.

"Oh, he has been much too busy -- haven't you? -- to be bothered with the likes of his family. Much less to spend his time with us. He has better things to do."

Though she was often cutting, especially in a temper, I had never heard Mama so bitter.

Marcelin's earlier pallor had passed; now he went whiter than ever. He looked down for a moment, and then, so briefly I am not sure anyone else noticed, over at Grandmama, who alone was not squirming at Mama's words.

He reached over, and laid his hand on Mama's where it rested, glittering and small, on the table.

"Come," he said quite gently, "mother, let's not quarrel."

He had not called her "mother" for the past five years at least.

Mama sat perfectly still for perhaps half a minute. Her face tightened oddly, and then a tear spilled down her cheek, and then another. Then she gave up composure altogether and began to cry in earnest.

I sat stunned.

Marcelin loved our mother. I could see that from what he had just done, Grandmama or no Grandmama. He loved her because she was Mama, and beautiful and charming, even though he hated her because she was shallow and arrogant and cruel.

And she loved him. How could one not love Marcelin? It was only that she did not, and could not possibly, understand him; and Mama hated what she didn't understand.

This had never occurred to me before.

And of all the people at the table, moved and embarrassed, Grandmama alone had a look of complacent approval.

*   *   *   *   *

As we drove home, late that night, no one spoke. Elise was sound asleep; the rest of us were simply dazed.

But on the doorstep, in the snow, Mama very gently laid her hand on Marcelin's arm for a moment, and spoke to him so softly I could not hear what she said. Then, as if ashamed of her weakness, she hurried indoors.

He stood there, uncertain, for a minute. Then he went off and -- as he told me later -- sought out Yvette to thank her for Marcelle's offering and to wish her Merry Christmas.

*   *   *   *   *

Of course it did not last. Mama and Marcelin got on as badly as ever after that. But I almost think it does not matter. They had been shown, by the grace of God or Grandmama, what they needed to see: that they loved each other in spite of everything. That was sufficient miracle, knowing them, for anybody. Perhaps a miracle never lasts longer than that, once it has served its purpose. That is why we must treasure our miracles, so that we do not forget them.

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