Grace Harlowe's Problem Part 14

"Then, to please me, will you try to be friends with Miss Ward again?"

"Yes."

"You must tell no one else what you have told me," stipulated Grace further. "It must be a secret between us."

"I will tell no one," promised Jean.

The ringing of the door bell and the entrance of the maid with a card, brought the confidential talk to an end. Grace rose and held out her hand. "I must go," she said. "I will talk with you again when I hear from Miss Lipton."

"Thank you over and over again, Miss Harlowe." Jean's eyes were lit with a strength of purpose rarely seen in them. As she left the office and thoughtfully climbed the stairs to her room she resolved anew to be worthy of Grace Harlowe's approval and respect.

CHAPTER XIV

THE RETURN OF THE CHRISTMAS CHILDREN

"Holy night, peaceful and blest," rose Nora Wingate's clear voice, high and sweet on the still winter air. A chorus of fresh young voices took up the second line of the beautiful hymn, filling the calm of the snowy night with exquisite harmony.

A little old lady, with hair as white as the snow itself, her cheeks bright with color, her eyes very tender, appeared in the library window as the song ended. She had concealed herself in the folds of the curtain while the singing went on, fearing it might come to a sudden stop should she reveal herself.

Her appearance, however, inspired the singers to fresh effort, for, immediately they spied her, led by Nora, they burst into the old English carol, "G.o.d Rest You, Merry Gentlemen." They sang it with their rosy, eager faces raised to her, a world of fellowship in every note, while she stood motionless and listened, a smile of supreme love and content making her delicate features radiant.

As they ended this second carol she raised the window. "Come in, this minute, every one of you blessed children. You can't possibly know how happy you have made me this Christmas Eve."

"Coming right in the window," declared Hippy, as he made an ineffectual spring and failed to land on the wide sill.

"Just as I expected," jeered Reddy Brooks, dragging him back. "You might know Hippy would spoil everything. We all start out, on our best behavior, to sing carols to our fairy G.o.dmother. Then at the most effective moment, when we are feeling almost inspired, he ruins the whole effect by trying to jump in the window."

"He might as well try to jump through a ten-inch hoop," seconded David.

"He'd be just as successful."

"They are slandering me, Nora," whimpered Hippy, "and I am the sweetest carol singer of them all. Protect me, Nora. Tell Reddy Brooks it was his singing that nearly ruined that last carol. Tell him his voice is as loud and obnoxious as his hair. And tell David Nesbit that--" Hippy gave a sudden agile bound out of reach of Reddy's avenging hands, and tore across the lawn and around the corner of the house, shrieking a wild, "Good-bye, Nora. Remember I've always been a good, kind husband to you.

Don't forget me, Nora."

[Ill.u.s.tration: "Holy Night, Peaceful and Blest."]

"I'll pay him yet for that remark about my obnoxious hair," grinned Reddy, as the carol singers trooped across the lawn and into the house.

Mrs. Gray met her Christmas children with welcoming arms. "I am going to kiss every one of you," she announced.

"We are willing," a.s.sured David, and she was pa.s.sed from one pair of arms to another, emerging from this wholesale embrace, flushed and laughing.

"You didn't kiss me," observed a plaintive voice from behind the portieres that divided the library from the hall. Hippy's round face was thrust engagingly into view. He had slipped in the side door, un.o.bserved.

"There he is, Reddy. How did he get in so quietly?" David took a vengeful step forward. The face disappeared.

"Just wait until I hang up my overcoat," threatened Reddy.

"Don't let him hang it up, Nora. If you value the safety of your husband, make him stand and hold it," pleaded the plaintive voice.

"Here, Reddy, give me your hat and coat," ordered Nora cruelly.

"Ha! I defy you." Hippy suddenly bounced from behind the curtain into the midst of the group in the hall. "I would defy forty David Nesbits and fifty Reddy Brooks for a kiss from my fair lady." He bowed before Mrs. Gray.

"Bless you, Hippy," she said, as she kissed his fat cheek, "that was nicely said."

"I am always saying nice things," a.s.sured Hippy airily. "Better still they are always true things. There are some persons, though, who can't stand the white light of truth. May I rely upon you for protection, Mrs.

Gray? Alas, I am now alone in the world. The person who is supposed to have my welfare at heart is hob-n.o.bbing with my traducers. Miriam Nesbit used to be a fairly good protector, but she hasn't done much along that line lately."

"Come on, Hippy. I'll take care of you. I'm sorry I've neglected you."

Miriam held out her hand. Hippy hung his head and simpered. Then with his Cheshire cat grin he seized Miriam's hand and toddled beside her into the library. The others followed, laughing at the ridiculous spectacle he presented.

"Both our fairy G.o.dmother and I are disgusted with you," taunted Nora as she directed a glance of withering scorn at Hippy, now calmly seated beside Miriam on the big leather davenport, the picture of triumph. "You asked her to protect you; then you deserted her and deliberately went over to Miriam for help."

"Wasn't that awful?" deplored Hippy. "Such inconstancy makes me blush."

"You couldn't blush if your life depended upon it," was David Nesbit's scathing comment.

"There are others," retorted Hippy.

David glared ferociously at the grinning Hippy.

"There are others," went on Hippy blandly, "who, I might venture to say, have even greater trouble in producing that much lauded rarity, a blush.

But what does blushing mean? It means turning very red. It isn't always confined to one's face, either. I once knew a man, a rare creature, whose very hair blushed. That is, it turned red when he was an infant and blushed more deeply every year. In fact it never quit blushing."

"I once knew a person, a senseless creature, who didn't know when he was well off," began Reddy, in an ominous voice. "From the time he learned to talk he made ill-natured remarks about his friends. But at last he came to a terrible end. He----"

"I never knew him," interrupted Hippy. "I'm not interested in persons I don't know. I'd rather talk to Grace. I've known her for a long time, and we've always been on friendly terms. Come and sit beside me, Grace."

"Jilted," declared Miriam tragically, as Grace accepted the invitation and seated herself on Hippy's other side.

"Not a bit of it. I believe in preparedness. The constant-reinforcements-arriving-every-minute idea appeals to me. You are both bulwarks of defense."

"I'm surprised that anything except eats appeals to you." This from Reddy.

"'Eats' did you say? What are eats? Or, better, _where_ are eats?"

demanded Hippy, beaming hopefully at Mrs. Gray.

"They will appear very soon, Hippy," a.s.sured Mrs. Gray. "I sent a dispatch to the kitchen the moment you finished singing."

"For goodness' sake, Grace and Miriam, keep Hippy quiet for a while. No one else has had a chance to say a word," complained David. "I'd like to hear a few remarks on 'Life in Chicago' by our estimable pals, Jessica and Reddy."

"Life in Chicago can't compare with life in dear old Oakdale," said Jessica. "In spite of the theatres, concerts and all the pleasures that a big city offers one, Reddy and I are always a little lonely."

"That is because you and Reddy miss me," observed Hippy with positive modesty.