"I aint made up my mind quite yet," she said.

"But you will?" he replied, in a voice full of solicitude.

"I don't know. Would it please you if I did?"

"I needn't say that it would," was the reply. "I think it would make me real happy."

"Well, ef I thought that----"

Louisa took her fan out of Jim Hardy's hand and began to toy with it in a somewhat affected manner. Then her expression changed to one of absolute pa.s.sion.

"I don't think there is anything in heaven above, or the earth beneath, I wouldn't do, Jim Hardy, even to please you for half an hour; to please you is the light of life to me. So, if you wish it, let it be--there! I can't say any more, can I?"

"You can't; you have said enough," he replied gravely. "There is our call," he added; "we must go back. Are you cooler now?"

"Much cooler, thanks to you."

The call came a second time. Louisa hurried forward; Jim followed her.

Neither of them noticed the listening girl behind the curtain. The next moment loud cheers filled the room as Hardy and Louisa took their places side by side in the front of the stage.

Alison waited until the great uproar had subsided, then she slipped into the dressing room where she had gone on her arrival, put on her hat and jacket steadily and calmly, and went home. She had no intention now of waiting for Jim. She never meant to wait for Jim any more. He was false as no man had ever been false before. She would forget him, she would drive him out of her life. He had dared to come and talk of marriage to her when he really loved another girl; he had dared to give her words of tenderness when his heart was with Louisa Clay.

"It is all over," whispered Alison quite quietly under her breath.

She wondered, in a dull sort of fashion, why she felt so quiet; why she did not suffer a great deal more; why the sense of disappointment and cruel desertion did not break her heart. She was sure that by and by her heart would awaken, and pain--terrible, intense pain would be her portion; but just now she felt quiet and stunned. She was glad of this. It was Christmas Eve, but Jim was not walking home with her.

The Christmas present she had hoped for was not to be hers. Well, never mind, to-morrow would be Christmas Day. Jim was invited to dinner, to that good dinner which Grannie had no right to buy, but which Grannie had bought to give the children one last happy day.

Alison herself had made the cake and had frosted it, and Alison herself had stirred the pudding, and had thought of Jim's face as it would look when he sat with the children round the family board. He would never sit there now; she must never see him again. She would write to him the moment she got in, and then, having put him out of her life once and for ever, she would help Grannie to keep the Merry Christmas.

She walked up the weary number of steps to the flat on the fifth floor.

She found the key under the mat, and then went in. Grannie had left everything ready for her. Grannie had thought of a betrothed maiden who would enter the little house with the air of a queen who had come suddenly into her kingdom. Grannie, who was sound asleep at this moment, had no idea that Despair itself was coming home in the last hours just before the blessed Christmas broke. Alison opened the door very softly, and, going into the kitchen, took down her writing portfolio from a little shelf where she generally kept it, and wrote a short letter to Jim.

"Dear Jim: I have made up my mind, and in this letter you will get your final answer. I will not marry anybody until I am cleared of this trouble about the five-pound note; and whether I am cleared or not, I shall never marry you, _for I don't love you_. I found out to-night it was all a mistake, and what I thought was love was not. I don't love you, Jim, and I never wish to see you again. Please don't come to dinner to-morrow, and please don't ever try to see me. This is final.

I don't love you; that is your answer.

"ALISON REED."

Having signed the letter in a very firm hand, Alison put it into an envelope, addressed and stamped it. She then went out and dropped it into a pillar-box near by. Jim would get it on Christmas morning.

CHAPTER XI.

Christmas Day went by. It was quiet enough, although the children shouted with glee over their stockings and ate their dinner heartily.

There was a depressed feeling under all the mirth, although Alison wore her very best dress and laughed and sang, and in the evening played blindman's buff with the children. There was a shadow over the home, although Grannie talked quietly in the corner of the Blessed Prince of Peace, and of the true reason for Christmas joy. Jim's place was empty, but no one remarked it. The children were too happy to miss him, and the elder members of the party were too wise to say what they really felt.

Boxing Day was almost harder to bear than Christmas Day. Alison stayed quietly in the house all the morning, but toward the afternoon she grew restless.

"Dave," she said, "will you and Harry come for a walk with me?"

"To be sure," answered both the boys, brightening up. The little girls clamored to accompany them.

"No, no," said Grannie, "you'll stay with me. I have a job on hand, and I want you to help me. It is tearing up old letters, and putting lots of things in order. And maybe I'll give you a chocolate each when it is done."

The promise of the chocolates was comforting, and the little ones stayed at home not ill pleased. Alison went out with her two brothers.

She held herself very erect, and there was a proud look on her face.

She had never looked handsomer nor more a lady. David felt very proud of her. He did not understand her just now, it is true, but he was pleased when people turned round to look at her; and when admiring glances came in her way, he walked close to her with an air of protection, and was glad that his sister was better looking than other fellows'. They all turned their steps in the direction of Victoria Park. They had just got there when quick footsteps overtook them, and Jim Hardy came up.

"Hullo," he said, when he approached the little party. "Stop, can't you? I have been running after you all this time."

David and Harry both stopped, but Alison walked on.

"That's all right," said Jim, nodding to the boys. "You stay back a bit, won't you, like good fellows? I want to have a talk with your sister."

Harry felt inclined to demur, for he was fond of Jim, and his own pleasure always was first with him; but David understood, and gripped his brother's arm fiercely, holding him back.

"Keep back," he said, in a whisper; "can't you see for yourself that there's trouble there?"

"Trouble where?" said Harry, opening his eyes.

"You are a m.u.f.f. Can't you see that something has put Alison out?"

"I can see that she is very disagreeable," said Harry. "I suppose she is in love, that's what it means. She is in love with Jim Hardy. But he is going to marry Louisa Clay; everybody says so."

"Shut up," said David. "You are a silly. Hardy thinks no more of Louisa than he does of you."

"Well, let us make for the pond and leave them alone," said Harry. "I do believe the ice will bear in a day or two."

The boys rushed off to the right, and Alison and Jim walked down the broad center path. Alison's heart was beating wildly. The love which she was trying to slay rose up like a giant in her heart.

"But I won't show it," thought the proud girl to herself. "He shall never, never think that I fret because he has thrown me over for another. If, loving me, he could care for Louisa, he is not my sort.

No, I won't fret, no, I won't; I'll show him that I don't care."

"I'm glad I met you," said Jim. Jim was a very proud fellow, too, in his own way. Alison's queer letter had pierced him to the quick. Not having the faintest clew to her reason for writing it, he was feeling justly very angry.

"I didn't come in yesterday," he continued, "when you made it so plain that you didn't want me; but, all the same, I felt that we must talk this matter out."

"There's nothing to talk out," said Alison. "You knew my mind when you got that letter, and that's about all I've got to say."

"That letter was a lie from first to last," said Jim boldly.

Alison turned and looked full at him. Her face was white. Her big blue eyes blazed and looked dark.

"The letter was true," she said. "Girls can't help being contrary now and then. I don't want to see you again, I don't want to have anything to do with you. I made a mistake when I said I loved you. I found out just in time that I didn't. It was a right good thing I found it out before we was wed, instead of afterwards; I did, and we are safe, and you can give yourself, heart and soul, with a clear conscience, to another."

"I can't make out what you are driving at," said Jim. "You know perfectly well, Alison, that I love no one in all the world but yourself."