“It’s a worse storm than the one that held up your train; it’s rather Christmasy and all that, but it’s rather unfortunate, because the nurse has become alarmed about Professor Pendragon and he wanted to take the early train back to New York. We’ve telephoned Dr. Gerstens, and if it’s possible for anything to travel five miles through this snow storm he’ll be here.”

Ruth glanced across the breakfast table at Gloria while Angela was speaking, but there was no annoyance on Gloria’s face, only a desperate fear looked out of her eyes. Again it seemed to Ruth that she was a trapped bird.

“How about the children?” asked Mr. Peyton-Russell.

“Oh, these storms never last more than a few hours; by noon it will be over and most of them can get here—those that only live a few miles away. They’re accustomed to weather like this—unless James refuses to take out the horses—James, you know, thinks more of the horses than he does of us,” she continued, turning to the others. “You know every Christmas John has the most beautiful custom. He gees around to all the farm houses and collects the children and brings them here to play games and enjoy our Christmas tree. I expect you to help entertain them, Ruth. You’re the youngest person here.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know much about children, but I’ll try.”

“I’ll help,” said Terry quickly.

“I knew you would,” said Angela, and they all laughed, though Ruth could see nothing to laugh at. She was beginning to fear that the events of the last weeks had dulled her wits.

“Can’t Pendragon take the afternoon train if it clears up?” asked Mr. Peyton-Russell.

“The nurse won’t let him; says he can’t stand sleeping cars. She simply won’t let him go until morning—and perhaps when Dr. Gerstens comes he’ll say it isn’t necessary—though he has looked rather badly the last few days. You know at first I quite forgot that he was ill until he would try to walk. I like him so much—don’t you think it’s awfully sweet of me to like John’s friends, Gloria?”

Angela was in one of her juvenile moods in which Gloria usually encouraged her, but now she only answered:

“Yes, very.”

“It is the duty of a good wife to like the friends of her husband,” said Prince Aglipogue, who by this time had sufficiently satisfied the first keen edge of the appetite acquired through the night to begin taking part in the conversation.

This remark was a challenge to Miss Gilchrist, who began a long talk on the duty of every woman to retain her individuality after marriage, illustrating her talk with examples of what the unfortunate man who married her might expect. And no one was rude enough or brave enough to tell her that all these plans and warnings on her part were unnecessary. Ruth didn’t even listen. She had discovered that Miss Gilchrist never required an answer to anything she said. She was content if only allowed to go on talking.

It was at such times as these that everything that Ruth had seen in the past and everything she feared for the future seemed most unreal and incredible.

Surely here in this warm room with its glowing fire, its flowers and birds, among these every-day people, eating breakfast and chatting of ordinary things, there could be nothing more sinister than the snow storm outside; and that only seemed to add to the comfort and good cheer within.

Then she saw George glide across the far end of the long room, silent, dark-clad, swift, and she remembered that this was not only Christmas Eve; it was also the dark of the moon. The children would come to play before the Christmas tree in the afternoon—and at night the doom of the daughter of Shiva would fall. Later she knew that it was in this moment that she thought again of the words of Professor Pendragon: “If I had an enemy I would destroy his faith in his power to harm,” and she knew what it was that she must do.

Angela was right. The snow stopped falling before ten o’clock. They had all been keeping country hours and had breakfasted at eight, and they all watched James drive off in the huge sleigh that was to bring the children to the Christmas party.

There would not be as many as usual, for James had been forced to make a late start and he could not travel very rapidly in the deep snow and the children must be there at three o’clock if they were to start home early in the evening. For these very good reasons he could not stop at more than four or five of the very nearest farms. However, as each farm could provide from two to six children, there promised to be quite enough to keep Ruth busy if she was to amuse them.

The idea of amusing children rather frightened Ruth, but she was relieved when Angela took them to see the tree. It had all been very nicely arranged with enough mechanical amusement to relieve her of any very great responsibility. The tree—a very big one—was in a large room from which most of the furniture, except a few chairs, had been thoughtfully removed. Aside from the candles and tinsel ornaments there were dozens of small gifts, of little value, but suitable almost for any child, together with the usual “Christian sweets,” as Terry called them, which Ruth remembered to have received herself from Church Christmas trees, and to have seen nowhere else at any time. Then there was to be tea with lots of cakes and chocolate and nuts and fruit, and altogether Ruth could see that there would not be more than one torturing hour in which she would have to “amuse the children.” Besides they would probably amuse themselves.

“Why not teach them poetry games?” suggested Miss Gilchrist, “those lovely things of Vachel Lindsay’s, where the poetry is interpreted by motion—”

“Better let them play games they know,” said Angela. “They only have an hour or two, and there won’t be time to teach them anything new.”

“Oh, very well. I was only suggesting; of course if you prefer the old-fashioned, undirected play—but it seemed to me a splendid opportunity to bring beauty into the lives of children who might never have another opportunity of studying it. I have gone in for child study, you know, quite deeply; I may say that child culture is my—”

Ruth feared that she was going to say it was her chief mÉtier, but Angela interrupted with:

“I think I’ll have some little tables brought in for the tea. Children are so awkward about cups and things, and perhaps they’ll feel less shy if they’re all sitting together round a table.”

Though her ideas about modern child culture seemed to meet with so little approval, Miss Gilchrist did not absent herself from the party. She was with Ruth and Terry and Mr. and Mrs. Peyton-Russell while they watched the arrival of the sleigh load of shouting children. Prince Aglipogue was, of course, far too dignified to take any interest and Gloria had absented herself since breakfast as if she feared that she would have to meet Pendragon again.

“They didn’t seem to mind meeting at all,” Terry had said to her the day before, but when Angela had spoken of Professor Pendragon’s dangerous condition and his plan of returning to the city, Ruth had caught his glance and knew that he understood at least in part—at least as much as any one else could understand. She did not intend to tell him anything about her own conversation with Pendragon or the scene between him and Gloria which she had witnessed. She knew that she had been there, not so much as a confidante, as an artificial barrier between two people who otherwise could not have borne the pain of meeting. The experience had made her feel very old, and now the idea of entertaining children seemed almost preposterous.

The door was opened and the little guests came trooping into the big hall, but something seemed to have happened when they clambered out of the sleigh. They had been laughing after the most approved manner of childhood. Ruth could swear to that. She had seen their faces and some of the shrill shouts had penetrated into the house. Now they stood, with wide, curious eyes and solemn demeanour, the little ones were huddling close behind the older ones and all looking like shy, frightened wood things. They followed Mr. Peyton-Russell into the room of the Christmas tree; they looked, but where were the cries of delight with which Ruth had expected them to hail this wonder? Beyond shy “yes” and “no” to questions they said nothing. They stood like little, wooden images while the maids separated them from vast quantities of little coats, sweaters, knitted caps, hoods, mufflers, and overshoes. Ruth hoped that they would breathe sighs of relief and begin to look happy after that, but they didn’t. They stood quite solemnly where they were and Angela and her husband, who were to return later to distribute the gifts, fled, leaving them to be “amused.” The electric candles on the tree had been lighted, though it was a bright day, and some of the bolder children drew near to it, but still they did not talk. It seemed that entrance into the house had made them strangers to each other as well as to their hosts, and they looked so dull Ruth wondered, remembering the hordes of dark-faced children she had seen playing in Washington Square, if country children were duller than city children.

“Let me start them,” said Miss Gilchrist, talking quite audibly as if the children could not hear. “I have a great way with children.” She threw an ogreish smile at them as she spoke and one little girl instinctively drew near to Terry as if for protection.

“Now, children, what shall we play?” she asked in what was doubtless intended to be an engaging tone of voice.

For a long time no one spoke; then a little girl—the tallest little girl there—whispered just audibly:

“Kissing games.”

Terry grinned delightedly, but Miss Gilchrist flushed a dark purple.

“No, indeed,” she said, still in her schoolteacher voice. “I’m sure the other children do not want to play games like that. Tell me what you play at school.” But again there was silence. Though some of the little boys had giggled, there were indications that most of the children did want to play “kissing games,” probably because those were the only indoor games they knew.

“Why not let them play the games they’re accustomed to playing—isn’t there one called—er—post-office?” he questioned the little girl. She nodded emphatically, and Miss Gilchrist, casting looks expressive of deep disgust at both Terry and Ruth, departed. In her absence the children seemed to gain confidence. They told Terry their names and recalled to him such details of the fascinating game of post-office as he had forgotten.

“D’you really mean you never played it?” he asked Ruth.

“I’m sorry; I didn’t know it was so important.”

“No child’s education complete without it; but it’s never too late to mend your ways, so you can learn now.”

At first Ruth couldn’t help feeling rather ridiculous, but the children after five minutes of play seemed to regard her as one of them, and Terry was perhaps a bit younger than the youngest boy there. They progressed from one game to another, and to Ruth it seemed that every game, no matter how harmless on the surface, called for some declaration in rhyme about “the un that I luf best,” followed by a kiss to prove it, and she was in constant fear that the etiquette of play would require that she kiss Terry, but it never did. Evidently Terry understood these things far better than she did, for while he kissed every little maid in the room and every little boy made declaration of his love for her, they never had to kiss each other.

Still it was a relief when tea was brought in; a relief to the children as well, if one could judge by the enthusiasm with which they greeted it, and afterward John Peyton-Russell and Angela and Gloria and even Prince Aglipogue came in to see the distribution of gifts.

They all sat in rows, “Like in Sunday School,” as Ruth heard one of the little girls whisper, while Mr. Peyton-Russell made a little speech and gave out the gifts. Gloria’s cheeks were flushed and her eyes were unnaturally bright, Ruth thought, but as always under stress of emotion, she was hiding behind words, amusing words with a touch of acid behind them.

“He used to invite the parents, too,” she told Ruth; “sort of lord of the manor pose; but he found that American farmers do not lend themselves well to the tenantry idea; they came and then sent him invitations as a return of hospitality. They simply would not be faithful retainers, and then”—

“I’m afraid Aggie’s being bored—not enough to drink for one thing—Angela is so conservative—dinner tonight will cheer him—some more people coming; the Brixtons and their guests, I think. Hope Percy has the good grace to keep to his rooms even though he didn’t leave.”

“He couldn’t, you know, because of the storm this morning,” defended Ruth.

“I say, is he going to die, do you think?” she asked suddenly.

“No—what made you ask that?” Ruth felt her eyes shifting in spite of her efforts to meet Gloria’s clear gaze.

“I don’t know—something in the look of him when we left him there in his wheel chair—you know everything is finished for us, but still it would be terrible! I should hate to have Percy die, though God knows I have enough ex-husbands to be able to spare just one.”

Her shrill, mirthless laughter rose above the chatter of the children’s voices.

“Don’t, Gloria—please don’t—I can’t bear it!”

“Look here, child—are you—do you love Percy?” Her voice had changed now, all the hardness gone from it—it was almost the mother tone. Her words startled Ruth more than anything that had gone before.

“Love Professor Pendragon? Of course not. I like him awfully well—I’m afraid I think you’ve treated him very badly and perhaps I’m sorry for him, but I never thought of him in any other way. What made you ask that?”

Gloria listened, at first with a little puzzled line between her perfect brows, and then, convinced of Ruth’s sincerity, her face cleared.

“I don’t know—something Terry said first gave me the idea. I think he got the impression from something you said. And it wouldn’t be so strange, would it? Percy is attractive.”

“Much more attractive than that horrible creature,” said Ruth, glancing in Prince Aglipogue’s direction.

Gloria shrugged her shoulders and did not reply. One could say anything to Gloria. She was never offended because people did not agree with her, nor did the opinions of other people change or influence her own actions or beliefs in any way.

Ruth did not try to talk any more. She was thinking of what Gloria had said about Terry. If Terry thought that she was interested in Pendragon—if she could have made a mistake like this—wasn’t it possible that she had made a mistake in thinking that Terry loved Gloria? Somehow since their adventure on the train together he had not seemed so inaccessible. Reason had told her that he was unattainable, but something stronger than reason had told another story. There had been an indefinable something different in his attitude toward her during the last few days—something like a prelude—something for which they were both waiting. Still, she must not deceive herself with false hopes. There were so many things for which she was waiting—things that would happen now she knew within a very few hours.