Mrs. Mackenzie after dinner had the biggest chair in the cosiest corner by the drawing-room fire.
"Come and sit by me, dear," she said to Jack's mother. "Take the stool there, and give me your hand in my lap. You are still young and beautiful. Ah! I wish I had known you long, long ago. And you dearly loved my boy?"
There were tears in Jack's mother's eyes and a lump in her throat, so she could not answer.
"Ah, machree, what you must have suffered! But look," added the old lady, by way of changing the subject—"look at our young sailor, your boy. See, he is making love in a quiet way to little Tottie."
This was true. But Violet was very shy.
"What nonsense!" she was saying, with a bonnie blush. "I used to write you when a baby. I hope you burned all my silly letters."
"Oh, religiously," said Jack, laughing,—"in the fire of my heart."
They were standing by the window, the very window that looked out upon the lawn where, years and years ago, he, Jack, a barefooted, ragged lad, had stood in the snow looking in at the fairies, as he had called them, dancing round the Christmas tree. The snow was falling there now; the lawn was white, and the bushes draped like statues.
Jack sighed. "What a change," he thought, "a few years has made!"
* * * * *