not look away—yes—they were kissing each other through him—holding each other close.
On Christmas Eve came a knock at the door where there were now but few knocks to disturb the lonely master of the house. Mr. Jerrold in a fur greatcoat stood there, his accustomed cigar in his fingers. He and Gay and Miss Pearsall, who was stopping with them over the holiday, were on their way to Mistwell where he had a Christmas tree every year for the village children. They looked forward to it all year, and, by Jove, he wasn't going to have the poor little beggars disappointed, even though he had been smitten rather roughly. Would Vale care to come? And Mrs. Vale? He spoke with genial unconcern, as though it were quite the custom for Mrs. Vale to join in their little activities. It was such a fine starlit night they were walking.
Derek had been feeling abominably homesick for Halifax and Edmund. He said eagerly that he would be glad to go, but Fawnie couldn't very well leave the baby. This time he blamed it on the baby. He wasn't quite up to the mark. Stomach ache or something. Kids were always getting something wrong. He grew hot with nervousness, but nothing would have induced him to tell the truth.
The girls had walked on ahead. Their slight figures outlined against the sparkling snow hurried on, as though avoiding the men. "Let them go," said Mr. Jerrold. "I want a good talk with you."
They overtook them at the door of the little weatherbeaten town hall already packed with the children and their parents. A curtain was drawn before the tree, and Derek was led behind this by the girls to help light candles and
