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To the Lay Reader’s face, and right through the Lay Reader’s face, to the face of the Master of the House, Flame’s glance went homing with an unaccountable impulse.

With one elbow leaning casually on the mantle-piece, his narrowed eyes faintly inscrutable, faintly smiling, it seemed suddenly to the young Master of the House that he had been waiting all his discouraged years for just that glance. His heart gave the queerest jump.

Flame’s face turned suddenly very pink.

Like a person in a dream, she turned back to her Mother. There was a smile on her face, but even the smile was the smile of a dreaming person.

“No–Mother,” she said, “I haven’t seen Bertrand … to-day.”

“Why, you’re looking right at him now!” protested her exasperated Mother.

With a gentle murmur of dissent, Flame’s Father stepped forward and laid his arm across the young girl’s shoulder. “She–she may be looking at him,” he said. “But I’m almost perfectly sure that she doesn’t … see him.”

“Why, whatever in the world do you mean?” demanded his wife. “Whatever in the world does anybody mean? If there was only another woman here! A mature … sane woman! A—-” With a flare of accusation she turned from Flame to the Master of the House. “This Miss Flora that my daughter spoke of,–where is she? I insist on seeing her! Please summon her instantly!”

Crossing genially to the table the Master of the House reached down and dragged out the Bull Dog by the brindled scuff of her neck. The scratch on her nose was still bleeding slightly. And one eye was closed.

“This is–Miss Flora!” he said.

Indignantly Flame’s Mother glanced at the dog, and then from her daughter’s face to the face of the young man again.

“And you call that–a lady?” she demanded.

“N–not technically,” admitted the young man.

For an instant a perfectly tense silence reigned. Then from under a shadowy basket the Cat crept out, shining, sinuous, with extended paw, and began to pat a sprig of holly cautiously along the floor.

Yielding to the reaction Flame bent down suddenly and hugging the Wolf Hound’s head to her breast buried her face in the soft, sweet shagginess.

“Not sanitary, Mother?” she protested. “Why, they’re as sanitary as–as violets!”

As though dreaming he were late to church and had forgotten his vestments, Flame’s Father reached out nervously and draped a great string of ground-pine stole-like about his neck.

“We all,” broke in the Master of the House quite irrelevantly, “seem to have experienced a slight twinge of irritability–the past few minutes. Hunger, I’ve no doubt!… So suppose we all sit down together to this sumptuous–if somewhat chilled repast? After the soup certainly, even after very cold soup, all explanations I’m sure will be–cheerfully and satisfactorily exchanged. Miss–Flame I know has a most amusing story to tell and–“

“Oh, yes!” rallied Flame. “And it’s almost all about being blindfolded and sending poor Mr. Lorello–“

“So if by any chance, Mr.–Mr. Bertrand,” interrupted the Master of the House a bit abruptly, “you happen to have the carving knife and fork still on your person … I thought I saw a white string hanging–“

“I have!” said the Lay Reader with his first real grin.

With great formality the Master of the House drew back a chair and bowed Flame’s Mother to it.

Then suddenly the Red Setter lifted his sensitive nose in the air, and the spotted Dalmatian bristled faintly across the ridge of his back. Through the whole room, it seemed, swept a curious cottony sense of Something-About-to-Happen! Was it that a sound hushed? Or that a hush decided suddenly to be a sound?

With a little sharp catch of her breath Flame dashed to the window, and swung the sash upward! Where once had breathed the drab, dusty smell of frozen grass and mud quickened suddenly a curious metallic dampness like the smell of new pennies.

“Mr. … Delcote!” she called.

In an instant his slender form silhouetted darkly with hers in the open window against the eternal mystery and majesty of a Christmas night.

“And then the snow came!”