“Vere vey are!” he exclaimed.

“Who?”

“My mamma, and Aunt Teddy.”  And, turning, he scurried away as fast as his blanket would let him.

As he passed them, the young man gave a glance at the two women, swift, yet long enough to take in every detail of their appearance and stamp it upon his memory.  The shorter one with the golden hair was evidently Mac’s mother, not only because she was the older, but became the child’s mischievous face was like a comic mask made in the semblance of her own gentle features.  Her companion was more striking.  Taller and more richly dressed, she carried the impression of distinctiveness, of achievement, as if she were a person who had proved her right to exist.  Gifford Barrett’s eyes lingered on her longer, at a loss to account for a certain familiarity in her appearance.  Where had he seen her before?  Both face and figure seemed known to him, other than in the relation of Mac’s Aunt Teddy.

“I saw the small boy again, to-day,” he told his sister, that night.

“Who?  Your little Mac?”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“I decline to assume any responsibility for him, Kate.  He passes my comprehension entirely.  He looks like a cherub on a Della Robbia frieze and converses like the king of the brownies.  I expect to hear him quote Arnold at any instant.”

His sister laughed.

“I can’t imagine who he can be,” she said.  “I wish you weren’t going East so soon, Giff, and we would go on a tour of investigation.  Such a child isn’t likely to remain hid under a bushel; and, if I find him, I will let you know all about him.  What is it, Jack?” she added, as her husband looked up from his paper with an exclamation of surprise.

“I’ve have been entertaining angels unawares,—­in the next block, that is,” he answered.  “Listen to this:  ’Mrs. Theodora McAlister Farrington, the novelist, who has been spending the winter with her sister, Mrs. Holden of Murray Street, left for her home in New England, to-night.’”

“Ah—­h!” There was a sigh of content from across the table.  “Now I have my bearings.  My imp is Mac Holden and Mrs. Farrington is Aunt Teddy, of course.  I met her in New York, last winter, at a dinner or two; but she evidently had forgotten me.  Such is fame!”

“Which?” his sister inquired, as she rose to leave the table.

CHAPTER TWO

The Savins, glistening in its snowy blanket, wore an air of expectancy, the house on the corner below was being swept and garnished, while the cold twilight air was burdened with savory odors suggestive of feastings to come.  Mrs. McAlister came back from a final survey of the corner house, made her eleventh tour of the parlor, dining-room and kitchen at The Savins, and then took her stand at the front window where she tapped restlessly on the glass and swayed the curtain to and fro impatiently.  She was not a nervous woman; but to-night her mood demanded constant action.  Moreover, it was only an hour and a quarter before the train was due.  If she were not watchful, the carriage might come without her knowing it, and the occupants miss half their welcome home.