She was instantly grave.
“No! Please do not try. It would be a great mistake. And, anyhow, you can hardly come to my party without being invited.”
“That matter is closed. Wherever you are on Christmas Eve I shall find you,” I said, and felt my heart leap, knowing that I meant what I said.
“Good-by,” she said, turning away. “I’m sorry I shan’t ever chase rabbits at Glenarm any more.”
“Or paddle a canoe, or play wonderful celestial music on the organ.”
“Or be an eavesdropper or hear pleasant words from the master of Glenarm—”
“But I don’t know where you are going—you haven’t told me anything—you are slipping out into the world—”
She did not hear or would not answer. She turned away, and was at once surrounded by a laughing throng that crowded about the train. Two brown-robed Sisters stood like sentinels, one at either side, as she stepped into the car. I was conscious of a feeling that from the depths of their hoods they regarded me with un-Christian disdain. Through the windows I could see the students fluttering to seats, and the girl in gray seemed to be marshaling them. The gray hat appeared at a window for an instant, and a smiling face gladdened, I am sure, the guardians of the peace at St. Agatha’s, for whom it was intended.
The last trunk crashed into the baggage car, every window framed for a moment a girl’s face, and the train was gone.