Bert always remembered the hour. The room was warm, fragrant of
spicy evergreen. There was a Rogers group on the marble mantle,
and two Dresden china candlesticks that reflected themselves in
the watery dimness of the mirror above. Nancy, slender and
exquisite, was in unrelieved, lacy black; her hair was as softly
black as her gown. Her white hands were locked in her lap.
Something had reminded her of old Christmases, and she had told
Bert of running in to her mother's room, early in the chilly
morning, to shout "Christmas Gift!"
Not moving his sympathetic eyes from her Checking Page back In,
Please Wait ... to town again, and his own pleasure in their visit
was talking of Nancy; how wise, how sweet, how infinitely
desirable she was. Dorothy had wanted Cousin Albert to come to her
for Thanksgiving. No, a thousand thanks--but Miss Barrett was so
much alone now. He must be near her. Dorothy kept her thoughts on
the subject to herself, but he so far impressed his mother that
her own hopes came to be his, she dreaded the thought of what
might happen to her boy if that southern girl did not chance to
care for him.
But the southern girl cared.
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