all this is only the outside of the old mahogany high-boy with its meerschaum-pipe polish, spraddling legs, and rattling handles.
Now for the Little Gray Lady’s own particular drawer.
II
It was Christmas Eve, and Kate Dayton, one of Pomford’s pretty girls, had found the Little Gray Lady sitting alone before the fire gazing into the ashes, her small frame almost hidden in the roomy chair. The winter twilight had long since settled and only the flickering blaze of the logs and the dim glow from one lone candle illumined the room. This, strange to say, was placed on a table in a corner where its rays shed but little light in the room.
“Oh! Cousin Annie,” moaned Kate (everybody in Pomford who got close enough to touch the Little Gray Lady’s hand called her “Cousin Annie”—it was only the outside world who knew her by her other sobriquet), “I didn’t mean anything. Mark came in just at the wrong minute, and—and—” The poor girl’s tears smothered the rest.
“Don’t let him go, dearie,” came the answer, when she had heard the whole story, the girl on her knees, her head in her lap, the wee hand stroking the fluff of golden hair dishevelled in her grief.
“Oh, but he won’t stay!” moaned Kate. “He says he is going to Rio—way out to South America to join his Uncle Harry.”
“He won’t go, dearie—not if you tell him the truth and make him tell you the truth. Don’t let your pride come in; don’t beat around the bush or make believe you are hurt or misunderstood, or that you don’t care. You do care. Better be a little humble now than humble all your life. It only takes a word. Hold out your hand and say: ‘I’m sorry, Mark—please forgive me.’ If he loves you—and he does—”
The girl raised her head: “Oh! Cousin Annie! How do you know?”
She laughed gently. “Because he was here, dearie, half an hour ago and told me so. He thought you owed him the dance, and he was a little jealous of Tom.”
“But Tom had asked me—”
“Yes—and so had Mark—”
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