“The candle is still burning, Mark, and she’s put more wood on the fire. But I can’t find her. Oh, yes—there she is—in her big chair—you can just see the top of her head and her hand. Hush! don’t one of you breathe. Now, listen, girls! Mark and I will tiptoe in first—the front door is never fastened—and if she is asleep—and I think she is—we will all crouch down behind her until she wakes up.”
“And another thing,” whispered Mark from behind his hand—“everybody must drop their coats and things in the hall, so we can surprise her all at once.”
The strange procession tiptoed in and arranged itself behind the Little Gray Lady’s chair. Kate was dressed in her mother’s wedding-gown, flaring poke bonnet, and long, faded gloves clear to her shoulder; Mark had on a blue coat with brass buttons, a buff waistcoat, and black stock, the two points of the high collar pinching his ruddy cheeks—the same dress his father and Uncle Harry had worn, and all the young bloods of their day, for that matter. The others were in their grandmother’s or grandfather’s short and long clothes, Tom Fields sporting a tight-sleeved, high-collared coat, silk-embroidered waistcoat, and pumps.
Kate crept up behind her chair, but Mark moved to the fireplace and rested his elbow on the mantel, so that he would be in full view when the Little Gray Lady awoke.
At last her eyes opened, but she made no outcry, nor did she move, except to lift her head as does a fawn startled by some sudden light, her wondering eyes drinking in the apparition. Mark, hardly breathing, stood like a statue, but Kate, bending closer, heard her catch her breath with a long, indrawn sigh, and next the half-audible words: “No—it isn’t so—How foolish I am—” Then there came softly: “Harry”—and again in almost a whisper—as if hope had died in her heart—“Harry—”
Kate, half frightened, sprang forward and flung her arms around the Little Gray Lady.
“Why, don’t you know him? It’s Mark, Cousin Annie, and here’s Tom and Nanny Fields, and everybody, and we’re going to light all the candles—every one of them, and make an awful big fire—and have a real, real Christmas.”
The Little Gray Lady was awake now.
“Oh! you scared me so!” she cried, rising to her feet, rubbing her eyes. “You foolish Children! I must have been asleep—yes, I know I was!” She greeted them all, talking and entering into their fun, the spirit of hospitality now hers, saying over and over again how glad she was they came, kissing one and another; telling them how happy they made her; how since they had been kind enough to come, she would let them have a real Christmas—“Only,” she added quickly, “it will have to be by the light of one candle; but that won’t make any difference, because you can pile on just as much wood as you choose. Yes,” she continued, her voice rising in her effort to meet them on their own joyous plane—“pile on all the kindling, too, Mark; and Kate, dear, please run and tell Margaret to bring in every bit of cake she has in the pantry. Oh, how like your mother you are, Kate! I remember that very dress. And you, Mark! Why, you’ve got on the same coat I saw your father wear at the Governor’s ball. And you, too, Tom. Oh, what a good time we will all have!”
Soon the lid of the old piano was raised, a spinet, really, and one of the girls began running her fingers over the keys; and later on it was agreed that the first dance was to be the Virginia reel, with all the hospitable chairs and the fire screen and the gouty old sofa rolled back against the wall.