"

"Oh, I don't care for him, now!" She tossed her head.

He kept up the play. "Like Dave Strong better, huh? He's a softy."

"He isn't. Oh, Guy--I heard you had a new girl."

"New girl nothing. Don't care for girls."

"Yes, you do. At least I think you do. Her name's--Margaret."

The play ceased abruptly. Guy's face changed. "Perhaps I do," he
murmured, while his sister watched him in the candle-light.

"She won't answer yet?" she asked very gently.

"Not a word."

"You've cared a good while, haven't you, dear?"

"Seems like ages. Suppose it isn't."

"No--only two years, really caring hard. Plenty of time left."

He moved his head impatiently. "Yes, if I didn't mind seeing her smile
on Tommy Gower--de'il take him--just as sweetly as she smiles on me.
If she ever held out the tip of her finger to me, I'd seize it and
hold on to it for fair. But she doesn't. She won't. And she's going
South next week for the rest of the winter, and there's a fellow down
there in South Carolina where she goes--oh, he--he's red-headed after
her, like the rest of us. And, well--I'm up against it good and hard,
Nan, and that's the truth."

"Poor boy. And you gave up going to see her on Christmas Day, and came
down here into the country just to--"

"Just to get even with myself for the way I've neglected 'em these two
years while my head's been so full of--her. It isn't fair. After last
year I'd have come home to-day if it had meant I had to
lose--well--Margaret knows I'm here. I don't know what she thinks."

"I don't believe, Guy, boy, she thinks the less of you. Yes--I must
go. It will all come right in the end, dear--I'm sure of it. No, I
don't know how Margaret feels--Good night--good night!"

* * * * *

Christmas morning, breaking upon a wintry world--the Star in the East
long set. Outside the house a great silence of drift-wrapped hill and
plain;--inside, a crackling fire upon a wide hearth, and a pair of
elderly people waking to a lonely holiday.

[Illustration: "'THE CHILDREN!' SHE WAS SAYING.
'THEY--THEY--JOHN--THEY MUST BE HERE!'"]

Mrs. Fernald crept to the door of her room--the injured knee always
made walking difficult after a night's quiet. She meant to sit down by
the fire which she had lately heard Marietta stirring and feeding into
activity, and warm herself at its flame. She remembered with a sad
little smile that she and John had hung their stockings there, and
looked t