Leaning against one of the deep silled windows, just where the fast fading light fell across his face, stood a tall, stoop-shouldered man.

In the flashing glimpse Molly caught of him before she turned and fled, she noticed that he resembled an old gray eagle with a thin beak of a nose and a worn white face; and that his dark eyes were quite close together. The rest of him was lost in the black shadows of the room.

Once out of the ghostly corridor and the heavy oak door shut between her and the strange visitor in the Professor's office, Molly paused and took a deep breath.

"In the name of goodness," she cried, "what have I just seen? If he had stirred or blinked an eyelash or even appeared to breathe, I should at least have felt he was human."

The big empty hall of the Quadrangle seemed a cheerful spot in comparison with the cloister corridor. It was warm and light and from the seniors' parlor came the sound of piano playing. But Molly never paused to look in and see what belated student was cheering herself with music. Only her own sitting room with its gay holiday decorations and Judy tw.a.n.ging the guitar could recall her to a world of realities.

Before she reached the door she had made up her mind that it would be just as well not to tell the excitable and impressionable Judy anything about the apparition or whatever it was in the Professor's study. It was really an act of self-denial, because it would have been decidedly interesting to discuss the episode with Judy.

"I would have told Nance," she thought. "She would have agreed with me, I am sure, that it couldn't have been a ghost because, of course, there are no such things. But if I tell Judy, I know perfectly well she will persuade me it was a ghost and we'll be frightened to death all night."

Judy, still wearing her widow's weeds, was singing a doleful ballad when Molly hurried in, called "By the Bonnie Milldams o' Binnorie." Molly was fond of this ancient song, but she was in no mood to listen to it just then.

"'The youngest stood upon a stane, The eldest cam' and pushed her in.

Oh, sister, sister, reach your hand, And ye sall be heir to half my land; Oh, sister, sister, reach but your glove, And sweet William sall be your love.'"

The guitar gave out a mournful tw.a.n.g.

"Talk about impressionable people, I'm worse than she is," thought Molly. "I'll shriek aloud if she doesn't stop this minute."

Just then the six o'clock bell boomed out and Molly did give a loud nervous exclamation.

Judy dropped the guitar on the floor. The strings resounded with a deep protesting chord and then subsided into resigned quietude.

"Molly, what is the matter? You're as pale as a ghost."

Molly smiled at her own weakness. Having just made up her mind not to tell Judy, she was suddenly possessed with a fever to relate the entire incident from beginning to end.

"If you'll promise to put on your red dress to-night by way of celebration, and to cheer me up, I'll tell you a thrilling story, Judy."

"But I've made a vow and I can't break it."

"Did the vow stipulate that you couldn't wear colors Christmas Eve?"

"No, not exactly."

"Well, then, get into your scarlet frock, because I'll never tell you if you wear that black one, and I'll put on some old gay-colored rag, too, and after supper I'll tell you a thrilling tale."

"I'll put on the red dress," said Judy, "if you promise never to tell Nance, but I can't wait until after supper to hear the story."

"You'll have to. It's a long tale and there won't be time to dress and tell it, too."

"Well," consented Judy, "because it's Christmas Eve, the very time to tell thrilling tales if they are true, I'll agree."

And obediently she attired herself in the scarlet dress, while Molly put on a blue blouse that, by a happy chance, matched the color of her eyes as perfectly as if they had been cut from the same bolt.

"Did it really happen to me," she kept thinking, "or did I dream it after all?"

There was no chance to tell Judy the story after supper, because the two girls were summoned to the parlor almost immediately to see three callers, Andy, Dodo Green and Lawrence Upton.

During the visit Molly seized the opportunity to ask the younger Green where his brother was spending his Christmas.

"Oh, he's making visits around the county," answered George Theodore carelessly. "He always has enough invitations for three, but he was never known to accept any before. I don't know what's got into the old boy this year. He's getting as giddy as a debutante, going to parties and rushing around in motors. I have had to make two trips over to Wellington, first to get his evening clothes because he forgot to pack them, and then for his pumps and dress shirts I forgot myself. When the old boy goes into anything, he always does it in good style. He used to be a kind of dude about ten years ago. But he's all the way to thirty now and he feels his age. Do you notice how bald he's getting? He'll be losing his teeth next."

"I'm glad he's having such a good time," said Molly, disdaining the aspersions cast by George Theodore on his brother's age. "I hope he is well and happy," she added in her thoughts. "I am sure I don't begrudge him a jolly Christmas, considering what a jolly one he gave me last year. I am sorry I left the note, now. Like as not, he doesn't even remember what I said that day and when he reads the letter he won't know what I am talking about."

At last the boys left. Judy was intensely relieved. She desired only one thing on earth: to hear Molly's ghost story. All her perceptions were on edge with curiosity, but she was determined to have all things in harmony for the telling of a Christmas Eve Ghost Story. So she restrained her inquisitiveness until they had slipped on dressing-gowns and were both comfortably installed in big chairs with a box of candy and a plate of salted almonds between them.

"And now, begin," she said, sighing comfortably.

But Molly had scarcely uttered three words when she was interrupted by the arrival of packages from the late train brought up by the faithful Murphy.

Even Judy's unsatisfied curiosity regarding the tale could not hold out against these fascinating boxes, and the story waited while they untied the strings and eagerly tore off the paper wrappings.

"I suppose we ought to wait until to-morrow morning, but since we're just two lonely little waifs, I think we might gratify ourselves this once, don't you, Molly dear?" asked Judy.

"I certainly do," Molly agreed, "seeing as it doesn't matter to anybody whether we look at them now or in the morning."

It was a long time before they settled down again to the story, and Molly had not advanced a paragraph when there came another tap at the door. Evidently the Quadrangle gates were to be kept open late that night or account of the arrival of holiday packages.

This time it was a boy from the florist's, fairly laden with flower boxes.

Andy had sent both the girls violets.

"Very sweet and proper of him, I'm sure, in the absence of Nance,"

laughed Judy.

Lawrence Upton had sent Molly a box of American beauties.

"And he could ill afford it, the foolish boy," e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Molly.

Dodo had expended all his savings on a handsome Jerusalem cherry tree for Judy. There was another box for Molly. It contained violets and two cards--Miss Grace Green's and Professor Edwin Green's.

Molly blushed crimson when she read the names. For the thousandth time she covered herself with reproaches. She sat down and gathered the bouquets into her lap.

"Judy," she cried contritely, "what have I done to gain all these kind friends? I'm sure I don't deserve it. The dears!"

But Judy was too much engaged with her own numerous gifts to contradict this self-depreciating statement.

"I am really happy, Molly," she cried, "even without mamma and papa it's been a lovely Christmas Eve."

With one of those divinations which sometimes comes to us like a voice from another land, it suddenly occurred to Molly that whatever it was in Professor Green's office, whether ghost or human, perhaps the Professor might not like to have it discussed, and she resolved not to tell Judy or anyone else what she had seen.

"And then," she continued, "if he ever asks me whether I told, it will be a nice, comfortable feeling to say I haven't."

At last, having put the flowers back in the boxes and restored some order to the room, Judy sat down and folded her hands.

"And now, go on with the story."