less. When
they were established in the living-room, Phil crouched on a stool by
the fire. Concealment and dissimulation were so wholly foreign to her
nature that it was with difficulty that she resisted an impulse to blurt
out the whole thing. They would know within a few hours of her mother's
return, and the fact that she had withheld the information would make
her situation more difficult. She saw her father furtively touch Nan's
hand; he was beyond question very much in love with her; and Nan had
practically confessed, on that memorable afternoon following Amzi's
party, her regard for Kirkwood. Then it had seemed to Phil the most
natural and rational thing in the world for her father and Nan to marry;
but now in this whirling chaos to which the world had been reduced, the
thought of it was abhorrent. No wonder they looked at her curiously, not
understanding her silence. Phil loved them all! Phil wanted everybody to
be happy! Yet clearly happiness even in the small circle of her nearest
and dearest was impossible. Her nimble fancy led her over rough chaotic
peaks in an effort to find a point from which to survey the general
desolation. In practical terms she reasoned that men and women sometimes
remarried after a long estrangement. Perhaps--But she was unable to push
beyond that perhaps.

The bell rang and she was glad of the interruption. Fred Holton had come
to call. Kirkwood greeted him cordially, and they widened the circle
before the grate to admit him. Phil addressed herself to Fred with the
kindliness he always inspired in her. He was a trifle abashed by the
presence of the Bartletts, and on seeing them, furtively dropped a
package he had brought on a chair by the door. Phil, inspecting it
glancingly, saw her name scribbled on the paper wrapper.

"Christmas gift! Who guesses this is a Christmas gift for me?"

"Everybody!" cried the Bartletts.

"I guess it's a book. I hope it's a book. I shall be disappointed if it
isn't a book," continued Phil.

Fred blushed, and said it wasn't anything. The clerk in the bookstore
had recommended it, and he thought Phil might like it. Phil tore off the
wrapper and held up "The Gray Knight of Picardy." The sight of it sent a
quick, sharp pain through her heart. It was no longer merely the best
tale of the season that her father and one of her dearest friends had
written, but a book her father and the woman he loved had written; and
this, in the light of the day's events, w