He didn't answer at first. He just kept looking at me, with that queer, new look of his. He didn't joke. His eyes didn't twinkle with fun. When he spoke his voice trembled. He took one of my hands very kindly and gently in both of his cold ones. "You have made my Christmas the very happiest one in my life, Lucy," he said solemnly. I glanced up surprised. I wish I could write down how his eyes looked. I can't. I only know I was suddenly afraid. I drew my hand away and laughed, for no reason. I was actually embarrassed before Dr. Maynard! "I guess I must go," I said nervously. The sun had set and the glow had all gone out of the room. Dr. Maynard didn't answer me. He just stood there like a stone man. Oh, I think that silences are the most awfully eloquent things in the world! "It's getting dark," I added desperately. Without a word Dr. Maynard went to the library door and opened it. I followed. Then to the front door and opened that. He stood holding it back, still not speaking (but I could feel his gaze burning into me) and I sped past him out into the dusk, like a wild bird out of a cage. I don't know how I got home. I half ran, half stumbled along the frozen road. My heart was thumping, and though I wasn't a bit cold (my cheeks fairly burned) my teeth chattered as if I were chilled through. When I reached the house there was a funny, choking feeling in my throat, and I dashed up to my room and locked myself in. * * * * * All this last took place not eight hours ago and it is very late Christmas night. When I write down what has happened it seems absurd to be excited. But when I think of it--when I close my eyes, see his gaze, hear his voice, I can't sleep. So I have climbed up into my cupola. I have been sitting looking up at the stars. They are very bright to-night. There are millions shining. I can see most all the houses in Hilton from my eyrie. They are dark now. It is after twelve. But there are two windows aglow. I can see them shining, side by side like eyes, through the bare limbs of our apple orchard. They are western windows, in a white house, and eight hours ago the setting sun shone into them, upon Dr. Maynard in his riding clothes. I wonder what he is doing so late. It's a lovely night--cold, clear and so still. I'd like to walk twenty miles before morning. I'd like to fly a thousand. O Father, I don't know why it is--it doesn't seem right, for the awful shadow is still over our house and Alec hasn't smiled all day--but this--oh, this is _my_ happiest Christmas too! CHAPTER XI