"You are sitting too far from the fire," I said, by way of endeavor to mend matters; "there must be some draught from that window too."
"I prefer being near the light," she answered, without looking up; "and I am not at all cold."
Another five minutes of silence. What should I say next? Could I sit there much longer? I did not think so. I felt as though I must make a desperate move and take my leave.
Suddenly, pealing out upon the silent night, I heard the sound of bells. She heard them too, I knew, for I saw her lift her head to listen.
"The Christmas chimes," I said; "how beautifully they sound. I have heard them in Rome and Naples; last year I was in England at this season; but home music has charms peculiar to itself, and dearer than all other—at least so it seems to me."
"You believe in Christmas, then, as an institution?" she answered smilingly, and with a touch of the old sarcasm in her voice.
"Surely," I replied gravely, "since I believe in Christ. Inasmuch as a Catholic believes and reverences all that his church teaches and believes."
I looked at her face to see what effect my words would have, but it evinced no emotion of surprise. She answered quietly and assuredly, as though our ways had never been separate,
"Yes, we who are Catholics enjoy the capacity of feeling and appreciating these things as none do beside. Especially converts such as you and I, who have known the experience of doubt and fear."
"I was not aware," I rejoined, "that you knew of my conversion."