Louise Wrayworth's life had been a bright one hitherto; her guardian's home was the only one she could remember, and he had striven to fill in some degree her father's place. To him, from infancy to womanhood, she had looked up with loving grateful reverence, regarding him, present or absent, as the noblest of created beings.
He reached the old church, and made his way round to the open vestry door. The steps were encumbered with bundles of evergreens; the voices of the workers, who had finished their task, were audible. He pushed the door further open, and went in. The floor was covered with boughs, and around the pillars were wreathed holly and other evergreens in honour of the joyous season. Some of the choristers stood waiting for the choir-practice, and the organist was softly playing Adeste Fideles.
'Ralph!' cried a young fresh voice; and a slight fair girl with a merry face sprang up from the floor, with her hands full of the scarlet berries, which fell hither and thither in bright-hued rain, as with complete indifference to the by-standers, she gave the returned soldier a sisterly embrace. 'You dear old thing to come for us!' she exclaimed.
'Emma, Emma!' exclaimed Ralph, laughing and disengaging himself; 'you have not learned to behave any better in five years.'
But his young sister had vanished, and he turned to greet the vicar; and one or two of the ladies he recognised. In a few minutes Emma reappeared; and behind her came a tall fair girl with masses of golden hair, and great beautiful cold blue eyes. She greeted Major Loraine affectionately, but with the quiet stately grace habitual to her. Five years had not changed Katharine Loraine; at twenty-four she was still the same majestic Queen Katharine as at nineteen, with whom he had always had so little sympathy, whose nature he had found so difficult to understand.
'Where is Louise?' he asked presently. 'Is she not here?'
'She went into the churchyard just now,' answered Emma, 'to put a wreath on Nellie Bryant's grave. You remember her, Ralph?'
'Louise's friend? Yes.'
'A triste employment for Christmas eve,' observed one of the gentlemen decorators to Katharine, as he stooped to disentangle her dress from a long sprig of ivy.
'Oh, Mr Leveson went to hold a lantern for her,' Katharine answered, with the slightest possible shade of contempt in the silvery tones of her voice; 'and Louise is never triste, unless she is by herself.'