"Hold your tongues, both of you," cried the old lady, as she lifted her
silk skirt in both hands and swept from the kitchen.
When they reached the house again, they heard the Major's voice, on its
highest key, demanding: "Molly! Why, bless my soul, what's become of
Molly?" He was calling from the front steps, and the sound of tramping feet
rang in the drive below. Against the whiteness of the storm Big Abel's face
shone in the light from the open door, and about him, as he held the
horses, Dan and Champe and a guest or two were dismounting upon the steps.
As the old lady went forward, Champe rushed into the hall, and caught her
in his arms.
"On my word, you're so young I didn't know you," he cried gayly. "If you
keep this up, Aunt Molly, there'll be a second Lightfoot beauty yet. You
grow prettier every day--I declare you do!"
"Hold your tongue, you scamp," said the old lady, flushing with pleasure,
"or there'll be a second Ananias as well. Here, Betty, come and wish this
bad boy a Merry Christmas."
Betty looked round with a smile, but as she did so, her eyes went beyond
Champe, and saw Dan standing in the doorway, his soft slouch hat in his
hand, and a powdering of snow on his dark hair. He had grown bigger and
older in the last few months, and the Lightfoot eyes, with the Lightfoot
twinkle in their pupils, gave an expression of careless humour to his pale,
strongly moulded face. The same humour was in his voice even as he held his
grandfather's hand.
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