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“No, no! He doesn’t really care for me. I could bear it better if he did,” whispered Doris.

“Not care for you, my dearie? Why, what ever can you be thinking of?” protested Granny Grimshaw. “He’s eating his very heart out for you, and I verily believe he’d kill himself sooner than make you unhappy.”

“Ah! You don’t understand,” sighed Doris. “He only wants–material things.”

“Oh, my dear, my dear!” said Granny Grimshaw. “Did you suppose that the man ever lived who could love a woman without? We’re human, dear, the very best of us, and there’s no getting out of it. Besides, love is never satisfied with half measures.”

She drew the girl down into the chair before the fire and fussed over her tenderly till she grew calmer. And then presently she slipped away.

Doris finished her tea slowly with her eyes on the red coals, then rose at length to continue her dressing. As she stood at the table twisting up her hair, her glance fell on a small packet that lay there.

With fingers that trembled a little she opened it. It contained a small object wrapped in a slip of paper. There was writing upon it, which she deciphered as she unrolled it. “For my wife, with all my love. Jeff.” And in her hand there lay a slender gold ring, exquisitely dainty, set with pearls. A quick tremor went through Doris. She guessed that it had belonged to his mother.

Again she read the few simple words; they seemed to her to hold an appeal which the man himself could never have uttered, and her heart quivered in response as a finely tempered instrument vibrates to a sudden sound. Had she never understood him?

She finished her dressing with impulsive haste, and with Jeff’s gift in her hand turned to leave the room.

Her heart throbbed violently as she descended.

What would his mood be when she found him? If he would only be kind to her! Ah, if only he would be kind! Granny Grimshaw was lighting the lamps in the hall and parlour.

“Everyone’s out but me,” she said. “Master Jeff and I generally keep house alone together on Christmas night. I don’t know why he doesn’t come in. He went out to see to the horses half an hour ago. He hasn’t had his tea yet.”

“I will give him his tea,” Doris said.

“Very well,” said Granny Grimshaw. “I’ll leave the kettle on for you while I go up and dress.”

Doris went into the parlour to wait. The lamp on the table was alight, the teacups ready, and a bright fire made the room cosy. She went to the window and drew aside the curtain.

The snow had ceased, and the sky was clear. Stars were beginning to pierce the darkness.

Slowly the minutes crawled by. She began to listen for his coming, to chafe at his delay. At last, grown nervous with suspense, she turned from the window and went into the hall. She opened the door and stepped out into the porch.

Still and starlit lay the path before her. The snow had been swept away. Impulse seized her. She felt she could wait no longer. She slipped back into the hall, took a coat of Jeff’s from a peg, put it on, and so passed out into the open.

The way to the stable lay past the mill-stream. On noiseless feet she followed it. The water was deep and dark and silent. She shivered as she drew near. In the stable beyond, close to the mill, she saw a light. It was moving towards her. In a moment she discovered Jeff’s face above it, and–was it something she actually saw in the face, or was it an illusion created by the swinging lantern?–her heart gave a sudden jerk of horror. For it was to her as if she looked upon the face of a dead man.

She stood still in the shadow of a weeping willow, arrested by that look, and watched him come slowly forth.