The weather, which up to that time had been singularly mild and beautiful, suddenly grew gray and stormy and bitterly cold. No guest had passed the doors of Harrowby since Colonel Tremaine left. It was now the day before Christmas, and all day long Angela had anxiously watched for Colonel Tremaine’s arrival.
About five o’clock, when it was already dark, and earth and sky and river were all an icy and forbidding gray, Angela stood by the hall fire with Lyddon, who had just come in from his afternoon tramp.
“I do so hope,” Angela said, “that Uncle Tremaine will get here before it snows. Mammy Tulip says that she feels it in her bones that snow will fall deep and everything will be frozen up. She thinks so because she hears the owls hooting at night or something of the sort.”
“I think so,” replied Lyddon, “because the wind is from the northwest and the clouds have hung heavy all day.”
“How different it is,” cried Angela, “from last year!”
She came close to Lyddon and, as she often did in her earnestness, laid her hand upon his arm and looked with dark and bewildered eyes into his face.
“Last year,” she continued, “all was peace; this year all is war. Not only everywhere, but here in my heart. It seems to me as if I were at war with everyone in this house except you.”
“Poor child!” was all Lyddon could reply.
Angela drew back on the other side of the hearth and said: “But I want to be at peace. I would like to be at peace with Uncle Tremaine and Aunt Sophia—I love them so much. Even Archie is changed toward me, and that little insignificant George Charteris looks at me with contempt when he takes off his hat to me. And do you remember how pleased I was at the idea of Madame Isabey and Madame Le Noir coming here? Well, Madame Le Noir is at war with me.”
“Life is all a battle and a march,” was Lyddon’s answer.