The doctor hesitated a moment. He was making the discovery that after many years old wounds can reopen and throb. No one had ever been brave enough to broach to him the subject of this single love-affair, which he was now discussing, he told himself, like a garrulous old woman. He was anxious to direct the conversation into other channels, but there was a certain compelling demand in the brown eyes upturned to his.
“Well, you see,” he explained, “other boys liked her, too. And when she became a young lady other men liked her. So finally—one of them took her away from me.”
He uttered the last words wearily, and the sensitive atom at his side seemed to understand why. Her little hand slipped into his.
“Why didn’t you ask her to please stay with you?” she persisted, pityingly.
“I did,” he told her. “But, you see, she liked the other man better.”
“Oh-h-h.” The word came out long-drawn and breathless. “I don’t see how she possedly could!”
There was such sorrow for the victim and scorn for the offender in the tone, that, combined with the none too subtle compliment, it was too much for Dr. Van Valkenberg’s self-control. He threw back his gray head, and burst into an almost boyish shout of laughter, which effectually cleaned the atmosphere of sentimental memories. He suddenly realized, too, that he had not been giving the child the cheerful holiday evening he had intended.
“Where are you going to hang up your stockings to-night?” he asked. A shade fell over her sensitive face.
“I can’t hang them up,” she answered, soberly. “Santa Claus doesn’t travel on trains, Nana says. But p’r’aps he’ll have something waiting for me when I get to Cousin Gertie’s,” she added, with sweet hopefulness.
“Nana is always right,” said the doctor, oracularly, “and of course you must do exactly as she says. But I heard that Santa Claus was going to get on the train to-night at Buffalo, and I believe,” he added, slowly and impressively, “that if he found a pair of small black stockings hanging from that section he’d fill them!”