“Let’s go to the writing room,” said Aunt Lorena.
The writing room is a delightful little place, mostly occupied by a great sofa. There is a wide fireplace, too, and seats coming out from it at right angles. Young James built a great fire for us, and Semmy brought in some marvelous nut candies she had made, and Martha served the coffee there.
“No light but the firelight, please, Lorena,” commanded grandmother.
So we sat there by the light of the fire and listened to the storm. Uncle and auntie were together on one of the cushioned benches beside the fire; grandmother was on the huge lounge, wrapped in her camel’s hair shawl and heaped about with pillows; I sat down on the other bench beside the fire. Keefe looked at me a moment as if undecided what to do. Then he bowed and asked:
“Have I your permission?”
“Oh, yes,” said I as simply as I could. So we sat side by side for the first time in all our lives, and after a time—after quite a time—I felt his hand touching mine under the folds of my flame-colored dress. It has a scarf to it, that floats from the shoulders. It is quite vol—how do you spell it?—voluminous. That is why we could hold hands.
But I was afraid uncle and auntie were watching us. So I had an idea.
“Oh, dearest dear grandmother,” I said, “this is the night of all the world for a story. Grandmother, you must tell us a story—if you please.”
Grandmother gave a little laugh.
“I will do it,” she said. “I will tell you the story of an ancestress of yours.”