“Oh, I never dreamed of this,” said Paula, “when we chose Christmas eve for our journey.”
“Nor would you have done right to stay away if you had,” returned Mr. Sylvester gayly.
But when the sport was all over, and Paula stood alone with Mr. Sylvester in the library, awaiting his last good night, the deeper influences of this holy time made themselves felt, and it was with an air of gentle seriousness, he told her that it had been a happy Christmas eve to him.
“And to me,” returned Paula. “Bertram too, seemed very happy. Would it be too inquisitive in me to ask what good news the little note contained, to work such wonders?”
A smile such as was seldom seen on Mr. Sylvester’s face of late, flashed brightly over it. “It was only a card of invitation to dinner,” said he, “but it came from Mr. Stuyvesant, and that to Bertram means a great deal.”
The surprise in Paula’s eyes made him smile again. “Will it be a great shock to you, if I tell you that the name of the woman for whom Bertram made the sacrifice of his art, was Cicely Stuyvesant?”
“Cicely? my Cicely?” Her astonishment was great, but it was also happy. “Oh, I never dreamed—ah, now I see,” she went on naively. “That is the reason she refrained from coming to this house; she was afraid of meeting him . But to think I should never have guessed it, and she my dearest friend! Oh, I am very happy; I admire Bertram so much, and it is such a beautiful secret. And Mr. Stuyvesant has invited him to his house! I do not wonder you felt like making the evening a gala one. Mr. Stuyvesant would not do that if he were not learning to appreciate Bertram.”