“Merry Christmas!” she said gaily.
“Merry Christmas yourself. Your Dad and I had about decided you were going to sleep all day.” He tucked her arm within his. “How about some breakfast? I’m famished!”
“Before we open our presents?” she demanded. “I should say not!”
Saint Nicholas had been more than generous in his gifts to Gale and the others. After a long time spent examining and exclaiming over what the boxes disclosed they went to church. Then a long walk home through the brilliant sunlight and a most satisfying dinner.
“You know,” Gale confessed to Brent, “I keep thinking about Phyllis. I told you what her Aunt said that day, didn’t I? Let’s go see Miss Fields. I want to ask her what she meant—if she is home.”
“As you say,” Brent agreed.
The two walked up the long hill arm in arm. The air was cold and invigorating. Gale felt she must burst with personal happiness yet she found time to think of Phyllis and wish, as often before, that there was something she could do.
The house on the hill was gray and silent, just as she had pictured it when she was at Briarhurst. The shutters were closed on most of the windows and there was a forlorn, deserted look about the place.
“I think you will be disappointed,” Brent said. “It looks as though it is closed up for the winter.”
“I hope she is here,” Gale said.