of smarting tears I could see only blurred planes of light dancing
vaguely in the darkness, instead of brightly lit windows.

"Now," said Peck, panting and turning his back to the wind; "the rest of
you gentlemen wait out here. You two newspaper men, you come with me."

He opened the gate and went in, the "Journal" reporter and I
following--all three of us wiping our half-blinded eyes. When we reached
the shelter of the front porch, I took the key from my pocket and opened
the door.

"I live here," I explained to Mr. Peck.

"All right," he said. "Jest step in and tell George Dowden that Sim
Peck's out here and wants to see him at the door a minute. Be quick."

I went into the library, and there sat Dowden contemplatively playing
bridge with two of the elderly ladies and Miss Apperthwaite. The
last-mentioned person quite took my breath away.

In honor of the Christmas Eve (I supposed) she wore an evening dress of
black lace, and the only word for what she looked has suffered such
misuse that one hesitates over it: yet that is what she was--regal--and
no less! There was a sort of splendor about her. It detracted nothing
from this that her expression was a little sad: something not uncommon
with her lately; a certain melancholy, faint but detectable, like breath
on a mirror. I had attributed it to Jean Valjean, though perhaps
to-night it might have been due merely to bridge.

"What is it?" asked Dowden, when, after an apology for disturbing the