“Well, then, she died?”
“No.”
The Littie Lady had not moved, nor had she taken her eyes from the blaze. She seemed to be addressing some invisible body who could hear and understand. The girl felt its influence and a tremor ran through her. The fitful blaze casting weird shadows helped this feeling. At last, with an effort, she asked:
“You say you know them both, Cousin Annie?”
“Yes—he was my dear friend. I was just thinking of him when you came in.”
The charred logs broke into a heap of coals; the blaze flickered and died. But for the lone candle in the corner the room would have been in total darkness.
“Shall I light another candle, Cousin Annie?” shivered the girl, “or bring that one nearer?”
“No, it’s Christmas Eve, and I only light one candle on Christmas Eve.”
“But what’s one candle! Why, father has the whole house as bright as day and every fire blazing.” The girl sprang to her feet and stepped nearer the hearth. She would be less nervous, she thought, if she moved about, and then the warmth of the fire was somehow reassuring. “Please let me light them all, Cousin Annie,” she pleaded, reaching out her hand toward a cluster in an old-fashioned candelabra—“and if there aren’t enough I’ll get more from Margaret.”
“No, no—one will do. It is an old custom of mine; I’ve done it for twenty years.”