Two hours later a group of young people led by Mark Dabney trooped out of Kate’s gate and turned down the Little Gray Lady’s street. Most of them wore long cloaks and were muffled in thick veils.

They were talking in low tones, glancing from side to side, as if fearing to be seen. The moon had gone under a cloud, but the light of the stars, aided by an isolated street lamp, showed them the way. So careful were they to conceal their identity that the whole party—there were six in all—would dart into an open gate, crouching behind the snow-laden hedge to avoid even a single passer-by. Only once were they in any danger, and that was when a sleigh gliding by stopped in front of them, the driver calling out in a voice which sounded twice as loud in the white stillness: “Where’s Mr. Dabney’s new house?” (evidently a stranger, for the town pump was not better known). No one else stopped them until they reached the Little Gray Lady’s porch.

Kate crept up first, followed by Mark, and peered in. So far as she could see everything was just as she had left it.

“The candle is still burning, Mark, and she’s put more wood on the fire. But I can’t find her. Oh, yes—there she is—in her big chair—you can just see the top of her head and her hand. Hush! don’t one of you breathe. Now, listen, girls! Mark and I will tiptoe in first—the front door is never fastened—and if she is asleep—and I think she is—we will all crouch down behind her until she wakes up.”

“And another thing,” whispered Mark from behind his hand—“everybody must drop their coats and things in the hall, so we can surprise her all at once.”

The strange procession tiptoed in and arranged itself behind the Little Gray Lady’s chair. Kate was dressed in her mother’s wedding-gown, flaring poke bonnet, and long, faded gloves clear to her shoulder; Mark had on a blue coat with brass buttons, a buff waistcoat, and black stock, the two points of the high collar pinching his ruddy cheeks—the same dress his father and Uncle Harry had worn, and all the young bloods of their day, for that matter. The others were in their grandmother’s or grandfather’s short and long clothes, Tom Fields sporting a tight-sleeved, high-collared coat, silk-embroidered waistcoat, and pumps.

Kate crept up behind her chair, but Mark moved to the fireplace and rested his elbow on the mantel, so that he would be in full view when the Little Gray Lady awoke.

At last her eyes opened, but she made no outcry, nor did she move, except to lift her head as does a fawn startled by some sudden light, her wondering eyes drinking in the apparition. Mark, hardly breathing, stood like a statue, but Kate, bending closer, heard her catch her breath with a long, indrawn sigh, and next the half-audible words: “No—it isn’t so—How foolish I am—” Then there came softly: “Harry”—and again in almost a whisper—as if hope had died in her heart—“Harry—”

Kate, half frightened, sprang forward and flung her arms around the Little Gray Lady.

“Why, don’t you know him? It’s Mark, Cousin Annie, and here’s Tom and Nanny Fields, and everybody, and we’re going to light all the candles—every one of them, and make an awful big fire—and have a real, real Christmas.”

The Little Gray Lady was awake now.

“Oh! you scared me so!” she cried, rising to her feet, rubbing her eyes. “You foolish Children! I must have been asleep—yes, I know I was!” She greeted them all, talking and entering into their fun, the spirit of hospitality now hers, saying over and over again how glad she was they came, kissing one and another; telling them how happy they made her; how since they had been kind enough to come, she would let them have a real Christmas—“Only,” she added quickly, “it will have to be by the light of one candle; but that won’t make any difference, because you can pile on just as much wood as you choose. Yes,” she continued, her voice rising in her effort to meet them on their own joyous plane—“pile on all the kindling, too, Mark; and Kate, dear, please run and tell Margaret to bring in every bit of cake she has in the pantry. Oh, how like your mother you are, Kate! I remember that very dress. And you, Mark! Why, you’ve got on the same coat I saw your father wear at the Governor’s ball. And you, too, Tom. Oh, what a good time we will all have!”

Soon the lid of the old piano was raised, a spinet, really, and one of the girls began running her fingers over the keys; and later on it was agreed that the first dance was to be the Virginia reel, with all the hospitable chairs and the fire screen and the gouty old sofa rolled back against the wall.

This all arranged, Mark took his place with the Little Gray Lady for a partner. The music struck up a lively tune and as quickly ceased as the sound of bells rang through the night air. In the hush that followed a sleigh was heard at the gate.

Kate sprang up and clapped her hands.

“Oh, they are just in time! There come the rest of them, Cousin Annie. Now we are going to have a great party! Let’s be dancing when they come in; keep on playing!”

At this instant the door opened and Margaret put in her head. “Somebody,” she said, with a low bow, “wants to see Mr. Mark on business.”

Mark, looking like a gallant of the old school, excused himself with a great flourish to the Little Gray Lady and strode out. In the hall, with his back to the light, stood a broad-shouldered man muffled to the chin in a fur overcoat. The boy was about to apologize for his costume and then ask the man’s errand, when the stranger turned quickly and gripped his wrist.

“Hush—not a word! Where is she?” he cried.

With a low whistle of surprise Mark pushed open the door. The stranger stepped in.

The Little Gray Lady raised her head.

“And who can this new guest be?” she asked—“and in what a queer costume, too!”

The man drew himself up to his full height and threw wide his coat: “And you don’t know me, Annie?”

She did not take her eyes from his face, nor did she move except to turn her head appealingly to the room as if she feared they were playing her another trick.

He had reached her side and stood looking down at her. Again came the voice—a strong, clear voice, with a note of infinite tenderness through it:

“How white your hair is, Annie; and your hand is so thin! Have I changed like this?”

She leaned forward, scanning him eagerly.

There was a little cry, then all her soul went out in the one word:

“Harry!”

She was inside the big coat now, his strong arms around her, her head hidden on his breast, only the tips of her toes on the floor.

When he had kissed her again and again—and he did and before everybody—he crossed the room, picked up the ghostly candle, and smothered its flame.

“I saw it from the road,” he laughed softly, “that’s why I couldn’t wait. But you’ll never have to light it again, my darling!”

I saw them both a few years later. Everything in the way of fading and wrinkling had stopped so far as the Little Gray Lady was concerned. If there were any lines left in her forehead and around the corners of her eyes, I could not find them. Joy had planted a crop of dimples instead, and they had spread out, smoothing the care lines. Margaret even claimed that her hair was turning brown gold once more, but then Margaret was always her loyal slave, and believed everything her mistress wished.

And now, if you don’t mind, dear reader, we will put everything back and shut the Little Gray Lady’s bureau drawer.