"Excuse me," I managed to articulate in my surprise; "I did not know you had returned, or that you were expected."
"I was not expected," she answered smilingly. "But I grew homesick as Christmas approached, and astonished them all this morning at daylight. Will you sit down, Mr. Moray?" And she drew a chair forward.
"Thank you," I replied, "not this evening. I have merely brought some trifles for the little ones. We are great friends. I have become quite at home with them during your absence."
"So Laura tells me," she answered; "and they have not been silent either. They are very lovable children."
"I have found them so," I rejoined. "I suppose they are all three dreaming of Santa Claus at this moment. But I must be going. Be kind enough to present my compliments to Mrs. Auvergne, who is probably busy this evening. And allow me to wish you a very merry Christmas."
As I ceased speaking, the parlor door opened and the mistress of the house entered, bonneted and shawled for a walk, and accompanied by Fred, who announced himself a complete wreck from a frolic in the nursery.
"Good evening, Mr. Moray," said the little lady cordially. "These for the children? Thank you; you are very kind; they will be so delighted. You see our wanderer has returned. Is she not looking well? Sit down, you must not go yet. Rather late for a lady to go shopping, is it not? But I want something down-town, and Fred has volunteered to accompany me. We shall not be absent long; you must stay till we return. You and Helen are old friends, I know, and can manage to pass an hour pleasantly together."
I fancied Helen looked at me imploringly, as though to say, "Do go away," and I ventured to remonstrate.
"I am inexorable," was the reply. "You are to remain till we come back. Fred, take his gloves; and Helen, ring for lights."
There was no withstanding such importunity. Reluctantly, but with as good grace as I could summon, I allowed myself to succumb to the force of circumstances. Seeing there was no help for it, my companion in distress took some fancy knitting from a table near her, and soon appeared lost in its intricacies. For fully five minutes after the door closed on Mrs. Auvergne and her brother we sat in embarrassing silence—silence that at length grew unendurable.