He laughed a good boyish laugh.  “Does Barry know that you feel that way?”

“I’m afraid,” penitently, “that I make him feel it, sometimes.  And he doesn’t know that it is because I care so much.  That it is because I want him to be like—­father.”

He smiled into her misty eyes.  “Perhaps if you weren’t so militant—­in your methods——­”

“Oh, that’s the trouble with Barry.  Everybody’s too good to him.  And when I try to counteract it, Barry says that I nag.  But he doesn’t understand.”

Her voice broke, and by some subtle intuition he was aware that her burden was heavier than she was willing to admit.

She stood up and held out her hand.  “Thank you so much—­for letting me talk to you.”

He took her hand and stood looking down at her.

“Will you remember that always—­when you need to talk things out—­that the Tower Room—­is waiting?”

And now there were steps dancing up the stairs, and Barry whirled in with Little-Lovely Leila.

“Mary,” he said, “we are ready to light the tree, and Aunt Frances is having fits because you aren’t down.  You know she always has fits when things are delayed.  Poole, you are a selfish hermit to stay off up here with a tree of your own.”

Roger, who had stepped forward to speak to Leila, shook his head.  “I don’t deserve to be invited.  And you’re all too good to me.”

“Oh, but we’re not,” Leila spoke in her pretty childish way; “we’d love to have you down.  Everybody’s just crazy about you, Mr. Poole.”

They shouted at that.

“Leila,” Barry demanded, “are you crazy about him?  Tell me now and get the agony over.”

Leila, tilting herself on her pink slipper toes almost crowed with delight at his teasing:  “I said, everybody——­”

Barry advanced to where she stood in the doorway.

“Leila Dick,” he announced, “you’re under the mistletoe, and you can’t escape, and I’m going to kiss you.  It’s my ancient and hereditary privilege—­isn’t it, Poole?  It’s my ancient and hereditary privilege,” he repeated, and now he was bending over her.

“Barry,” Mary expostulated, “behave yourself.”

But it was Leila who stopped him.  Her little hands held him off, her face was white.  “Barry,” she whispered, “Barry—­please——­”

He dropped her hands.

“You blessed baby,” he said, with all his laughter gone.  “You’re like a little sweet saint in an altar shrine!”

Then, with another sudden change of mood, he whirled her away as quickly as he had come, and Mary, following, stopped on the threshold to say to Roger: 

“We shall all be away to-morrow.  We are to dine at General Dick’s.  But I am going to church in the morning—­the six o’clock service.  It’s lovely with the snow and the stars.  There’ll be just Barry and me.  Won’t you come?”

He hesitated.  Then, “No,” he said, “no,” and lest she should think him unappreciative, he added, “I never go to church.”