folded handkerchief into her hand, and at that she opened the wet
eyes, and smiled at him shakily.

"Just some soup--or a salad," he urged. "Will you promise me,
Nancy?"

"I promise you I'll try," she said in parting.

Walking home with his head in a whirl, Bert said to himself: "This
is the second of October. I'll give her six months. On the second
of April I'll ask her."

However, he asked her on Christmas night, after the Venables'
wonderful Christmas dinner, when they all talked of the Civil War
as if it were yesterday, and when old laces, old jet and coral
jewelry, and frail old silk gowns were much in evidence. They were
sitting about the coal fire in the back drawing-room, when Nancy
and Bert chanced to be alone. Mrs. Venables had gone to brew some
punch, with Sis' Sally Anne's help. The other young men of the
party were assisting them, Augusta had gone to the telephone.

Bert always remembered the hour. The room was warm, fragrant of
spicy evergreen. There was a Rogers group on the marble mantle,
and two Dresden china candlesticks that reflected themselves in
the watery dimness of the mirror above. Nancy, slender and
exquisite, was in unrelieved, lacy black; her hair was as softly
black as her gown. Her white hands were locked in her lap.
Something had reminded her of old Christmases, and she had told
Bert of running in to her mother's room, early in the chilly
morning, to shout "Christmas Gift!"