“Sworn,” said Dan, and he went back to Miss Lydia, while Betty danced a reel with young Diggs, who fell in love with her before he was an hour older. The terms cost him his heart, perhaps, but there was a life at stake, and Betty, who had not a touch of the coquette in her nature, would have flirted open-eyed with the rector could she have saved a robin from the shot. As for Diggs, he might have been a family portrait or a Christmas garland for all the sentiment she gave him.
When she went upstairs some hours later to put on her wraps, she had forgotten, indeed, that Diggs or his emotion was in existence. She tied on her blue hood with the swan's-down, and noticed, as she did so, that the white rose was gone from her hair. “I hope I lost it after supper,” she thought rather wistfully, for it was becoming; and then she slipped into her long cloak and started down again. It was not until she reached the bend in the staircase, where the tall clock stood, that she looked over the balustrade and saw Dan in the hall below with the white rose in his hand.
She had come so softly that he had not heard her step. The light from the candelabra was full upon him, and she saw the half-tender, half-quizzical look in his face. For an instant he held the white rose beneath his eyes, then he carefully folded it in his handkerchief and hid it in the pocket of his coat. As he did so, he gave a queer little laugh and went quickly back into the panelled parlour, while Betty glowed like a flower in the darkened bend of the staircase.
When they called her and she came down the bright colour was still in her face, and her eyes were shining happily under the swan's-down border of her hood. “This little lady isn't afraid of the cold,” said the Major, as he pinched her cheeks. “Why, she's as warm as a toast, and, bless my soul, if I were thirty years younger, I'd ride twenty miles tonight to catch a glimpse of her in that bonny blue hood. Ah, in my day, men were men, sir.”
Dan, who had come back from escorting Miss Lydia to the carriage, laughed and held out his arms.
“Let me carry you, Betty; I'll show grandpa that there's still a man alive.”
“No, sir, no,” said Betty, as she stood on tiptoe and held her cheek to the Major. “You haven't a chance when your grandfather's by. There, I'll let you carry the sleeping draught for Aunt Pussy; but my flounces, no, never!” and she ran past him and slipped into the carriage beside Mrs. Ambler and Miss Lydia.
In a moment Virginia came out under an umbrella that was held by Jack Morson, and the carriage rolled slowly along the drive, while the young men stood, bareheaded, in the falling snow.
“Keep a brave heart, Morson,” said Champe, with a laugh, as he ran back into the house, where the Major waited to bar the door, “remember, you've known her but three hours, and stand it like a man. Well I'm off to bed,” and he lighted his candle and, with a gay “good night,” went whistling up the stair.
In Dan's bedroom, where he had crowded for the holidays, he found his cousin, upon the hearth-rug, looking abstractedly into the flames.