The girl reached up her hands and touched the Little Gray Lady’s cheek, whispering: “But aren’t you very, _very_ lonely. Cousin Annie?” “Yes, sometimes.” For a moment Kate remained silent, then she asked in a faltering voice through which ran a note almost of terror: “Do you think I shall ever be like--like--that is--I shall ever be--all alone?” “I don’t know, dearie. No one can ever tell what will happen. I never thought twenty years ago I should be all alone--but I am.” The girl raised her head, and with a cry of pain threw her arms around the Little Gray Lady’s neck: “Oh, no!--no! I can’t bear it!” she sobbed! “I’ll tell Mark! I’ll send for him--to-night-before I go to bed!” III It was not until Kate Dayton reached her father’s gate that the spell wrought by the flickering firelight and the dim glow of the ghostly candle wore off. The crisp air of the winter night--for it was now quite dark--had helped, but the sight of Mark’s waiting figure striding along the snow-covered path to her home and his manly outspoken apology, “Please forgive me, Kate, I made an awful fool of myself,” followed by her joyous refrain, “Oh, Mark! I’ve been so wretched!” had done more. It had all come just as Cousin Annie had said; there had been neither pride nor anger. Only the Little Gray Lady’s timely word. But if the spell was broken the pathetic figure of the dear woman, her eyes fixed on the dying embers, still lingered in Kate’s mind. “Oh, Mark, it is so pitiful to see her!--and I got so frightened; the whole room seemed filled with ghosts. Christmas seems her loneliest time. She won’t have but one candle lighted, and she sits and mopes in the dark. Oh, it’s dreadful! I tried to cheer her up, but she says she likes to sit in the dark, because then all the dead people she loves can come to her. Can’t we do something to make her happy? She is so lovely, and she is so little, and she is so dear!” They had entered the house, now a blaze of light. Kate’s father was standing on the hearth rug, his back to a great fireplace filled with roaring logs. “Where have you two gadabouts been?” he laughed merrily. “What do you mean by staying out this late? Don’t you know it’s Christmas Eve?” “We’ve been to see Cousin Annie, daddy; and it would make your heart ache to look at her! She’s there all alone. Can’t you go down and bring her up here?” “Yes, I could, but she wouldn’t come, not on Christmas Eve. Did she have her candle burning?” “Yes, just one poor little miserable candle that hardly gave any light at all.” “And it was in the corner on a little table?” “Yes, all by itself.” “Poor dear, she always lights it. She’s lighted it for almost twenty years.” “Is it for somebody she loved who died?” “No--it’s for somebody she loved who is alive, but who never came back and won’t.” He studied them both for a moment, as if in doubt, then he added in a determined voice, motioning them to a seat beside him: