Dorothea ran down the narrow staircase this time, instead of up. She had to light a candle, and take it into the dining-room. Having found the required volume, some impulse led her to the window, where she peeped through the lowered venetians.
A hansom was dashing past; and two ladies on the pavement seemed to be carrying home an armful of packages. Dorothea could detect a merry ring in their voices as they went. Then came a boy, bearing a big bunch of holly. For this was Christmas Eve.
The Colonel had bought no holly. "Nonsense," he had said that morning, when Dorothea petitioned for some. "You are not a child now, my dear; and I have no money to throw away on rubbish."
Was it rubbish? Dorothea considered the question, as she leant against the window, forgetting for the moment the volume which had to be taken to her father.
"He does not, seem to care much about Christmas," she thought. "I used to feel it dull to stay at school; but this seems more dull. Did Mrs. Kirkpatrick guess how it would be, when she told me I should have worries? She said I must try to draw out my father's sympathies, because he has been so long alone. But how? What can I do? He does not care to talk. I can see that it only bothers him. And he seems to have no friends. Nobody calls to see him, not even any letters come. Will it always be so?"
As if in response, the postman's rap sounded.
"Mrs. Kirkpatrick, I dare say! She will not forget me," the girl said joyously, hastening out.
But the one letter handed to her was addressed "Colonel Tracy."
"I shall hear to-morrow. I did not really expect it sooner," she thought, and she ran lightly upstairs.
"Something for you, father. A Christmas card!" she suggested.