“Yes—although she did not know it at the time. She opened a door suddenly and found her lover alone with another girl. The two had stolen off together where they would not be interrupted. He was pleading for his college friend—straightening out just some such foolish quarrel as you have had with Mark—but the girl would not understand; nor did she know the truth until a year afterward. Then it was too late.”
The Little Gray Lady stopped, lifted her hand from the girl’s head, and turned her face toward the now dying fire.
“And what became of him?” asked the girl in a hushed voice, as if she dared not awaken the memory.
“He went away and she has never seen him since.”
For some minutes there was silence, then Kate said in a braver tone:
“And he married somebody else?”
“No.”
“Well, then, she died?”
“No.”
The Littie Lady had not moved, nor had she taken her eyes from the blaze. She seemed to be addressing some invisible body who could hear and understand. The girl felt its influence and a tremor ran through her. The fitful blaze casting weird shadows helped this feeling. At last, with an effort, she asked:
“You say you know them both, Cousin Annie?”
“Yes—he was my dear friend. I was just thinking of him when you came in.”
The charred logs broke into a heap of coals; the blaze flickered and died. But for the lone candle in the corner the room would have been in total darkness.
“Shall I light another candle, Cousin Annie?” shivered the girl, “or bring that one nearer?”
“No, it’s Christmas Eve, and I only light one candle on Christmas Eve.”
“But what’s one candle! Why, father has the whole house as bright as day
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