For an instant she dreamily scanned the fire, seeing in its glowing embers the brown wrinkled negro face with its honest eyes, peering at her over his spectacles in troubled apprehension; then she sprang to her feet.

“Uncle Edward,” she cried, “did you tell Uncle Neb to wait with the sleight?  Those sleigh-bells are beginning to sound hysterical.”

“Merciful goodness!” cried the Major; “I certainly did.  I had the strictest commands to drive in to church for Mother Verney at eleven o’clock.  Hi, Sam, you black rascal, tell Uncle Neb I’ll be right out.”

“I’ll tell him, Uncle,” called Ruth, flying swiftly up the long hall to the library window.

But no clear call went ringing over the snow to Uncle Neb; instead, there was silence, broken at length by a voice that called softly in great excitement, “Dick!  Uncle Edward! do come here.  Look!” she cried as they quickly joined her.  “You see, Uncle, he didn’t forget!”

Smiling, the two men looked from the window.  An old negro muffled in a threadbare overcoat was plodding up the walk, his eyes scanning the house with evident curiosity.

The Major uttered a quick exclamation and the girl wheeled about.

“Don’t you see?” she cried.  “He’s come to-day, honest old fellow that he is!  See, Dick—­”

She stopped abruptly, looking from one to the other.  There was something in the two stern faces staring beyond her at the bent negro that struck a chill to her heart.  Dick’s face had gone white, and the Majors hand had stolen to the younger man’s shoulder as if to steady him.

There was a startled incredulity in the Major’s face as he said:  “Brace up, old man!  You didn’t know, neither did I.”

“Ruth,” Dick asked unsteadily, “is that the old colored man whose—­whose master—­”

“Yes!” cried the girl, the sharp pain of premonition in her voice.  “Oh, Dick, who is he?”

Dick’s miserable eyes sought hers as he answered, “It’s—­it’s Dad’s Uncle Noah.  Ruth, I—­” He turned and sought the hall.

Ruth’s face flamed at his words.  Uncle Noah’s pathetic story came crowding over her again in the light of Dick’s revelation.  His father and mother!  The stern old Colonel, of whom Dick always spoke with such respectful loyalty in spite of their quarrel, and the dear mother, whose tender eyes gazing from the old-fashioned daguerreotype Dick always carried had made her choke with sudden tears—­these two were Uncle Noah’s beloved “ol’ Massa an’ ol’ Mis’”!

She turned; the Major had followed Dick to the hallway.  A shuffling step sounded on the porch outside, and the girl hurried toward the door, a sudden light of daring in her eyes.  Impulse had always ruled the Verneys, and Ruth was a Verney from the crown of her dark head to the tips of her small feet.  Catching up Grandmother Verney’s long cloak hanging over a chair, she softly left the house.