Christmas Eve, which was also a Saturday, dawned brightly on Henrietta, but even her eagerness for her new employment could not so far overcome her habitual dilatoriness as not to annoy her cousin, Busy Bee, even to a degree of very unnecessary fidgeting when there was any work in hand. She sat on thorns all breakfast time, devoured what her grandpapa called a sparrow’s allowance, swallowed her tea scalding, and thereby gained nothing but leisure to fret at the deliberation with which Henrietta cut her bread into little square dice, and spread her butter on them as if each piece was to serve as a model for future generations.

The subject of conversation was not precisely calculated to soothe her spirits. Grandmamma was talking of giving a young party—a New-year’s party on Monday week, the second of January. “It would be pleasant for the young people,” she thought, “if Mary did not think it would be too much for her.”

Beatrice looked despairingly at her aunt, well knowing what her answer would be, that it would not be at all too much for her, that she should be very glad to see her former neighbours, and that it would be a great treat to Henrietta and Fred.

“We will have the carpet up in the dining-room,” added Mrs. Langford, “and Daniels, the carpenter, shall bring his violin, and we can get up a nice little set for a dance.”

“O thank you, grandmamma,” cried Henrietta eagerly, as Mrs. Langford looked at her.

“Poor innocent, you little know!” murmured Queen Bee to herself.

“That is right, Henrietta,” said Mrs. Langford, “I like to see young people like young people, not above a dance now and then,—all in moderation.”

“Above dancing,” said grandpapa, who, perhaps, took this as a reflection on his pet, Queen Bee, “that is what you call being on the high rope, isn’t it?”

Beatrice, though feeling excessively savage, could not help laughing.

“Are you on the high rope, Queenie?” asked Fred, who sat next to her: “do you despise the light fantastic—?”

“I don’t know: I do not mind it much,” was all she could bring herself to say, though she could not venture to be more decidedly ungracious before her father. “Not much in itself,” she added, in a lower tone, as the conversation grew louder, “it is the people, Philip Carey, and all,—but hush! listen.”

He did so, and heard Careys, Dittons, Evanses, &c., enumerated, and at each name Beatrice looked gloomier, but she was not observed, for her Aunt Mary had much to hear about the present state of the families, and the stream of conversation flowed away from the fÊte.

The meal was at last concluded, and Beatrice in great haste ordered Frederick off to Sutton Leigh, with a message to Alex to meet them at the Church, and bring as much holly as he could, and his great knife. “Bring him safe,” said she, “for if you fail, and prove a corbie messenger, I promise you worse than the sharpest sting of the most angry bee.”

Away she ran to fetch her bonnet and shawl, while Henrietta walked up after her, saying she would just fetch her mamma’s writing-case down for her, and then get ready directly. On coming down, she could not help waiting a moment before advancing to the table, to hear what was passing between her mother and uncle.

“Do you like for me to drive you down to the Church to-day?” he asked.

“Thank you,” she answered, raising her mild blue eyes, “I think not.”

“Remember, it will be perfectly convenient, and do just what suits you,” said he in a voice of kind solicitude.

“Thank you very much, Geoffrey,” she replied, in an earnest tone, “but indeed I had better go for the first time to the service, especially on such a day as to-morrow, when thoughts must be in better order.”

“I understand,” said Uncle Geoffrey: and Henrietta, putting down the writing-case, retreated with downcast eyes, with a moment’s perception of the higher tone of mind to which he had tried to raise her.

In the hall she found Mrs. Langford engaged in moving her precious family of plants from their night quarters near the fire to the bright sunshine near the window. Henrietta seeing her lifting heavy flower-pots, instantly sprang forward with, “O grandmamma, let me help.”

Little as Mrs. Langford was wont to allow herself to be assisted, she was gratified with the obliging offer, and Henrietta had carried the myrtle, the old-fashioned oak-leaved geranium, with its fragrant deeply-indented leaves, a grim-looking cactus, and two or three more, and was deep in the story of the orange-tree, the pip of which had been planted by Uncle Geoffrey at five years old, but which never seemed likely to grow beyond the size of a tolerable currant-bush, when Beatrice came down and beheld her with consternation—“Henrietta! Henrietta! what are you about?” cried she, breaking full into the story. “Do make haste.”

“I will come in a minute,” said Henrietta, who was assisting in adjusting the prop to which the old daphne was tied.

“Don’t stop for me, my dear,” said Mrs. Langford: “there, don’t let me be in your way.”

“O, grandmamma, I like to do this very much.”

“But, Henrietta,” persisted the despotic Queen Bee, “we really ought to be there.”

“What is all this about?” said grandmamma, not particularly well pleased. “There, go, go, my dear; I don’t want any more, thank you: what are you in such a fuss for now, going out all day again?”

“Yes, grandmamma,” said Beatrice, “did you not hear that Mr. Franklin asked us to dress the church for to-morrow? and we must not waste time in these short days.”

“Dress the church! Well, I suppose you must have your own way, but I never heard of such things in my younger days. Young ladies are very different now!”

Beatrice drove Henrietta up-stairs with a renewed “Do make haste,” and then replied in a tone of argument and irritation, “I do not see why young ladies should not like dressing churches for festivals better than arraying themselves for balls and dances!”

True as the speech was, how would Beatrice have liked to have seen her father or mother stand before her at that moment?

“Ah, well! it is all very well,” said grandmamma, shaking her head, as she always did when out-argued by Beatrice, “you girls think yourselves so clever, there is no talking to you; but I think you had much better let old Martha alone; she has done it well enough before ever you were born, and such a litter as you will make the Church won’t be fit to be seen to-morrow! All day in that cold damp place too! I wonder Mary could consent, Henrietta looks very delicate.”

“O no, grandmamma, she is quite strong, very strong indeed.”

“I am sure she is hoarse this morning,” proceeded Mrs. Langford; “I shall speak to her mamma.”

“O don’t, pray, grandmamma; she would be so disappointed. And what would Mr. Franklin do?”

“O very well, I promise you, as he has done before,” said Mrs. Langford, hastening off to the drawing-room, while her granddaughter darted upstairs to hurry Henrietta out of the house before a prohibition could arrive. It was what Henrietta had too often assisted Fred in doing to have many scruples, besides which she knew how grieved her mamma would be to be obliged to stop her, and how glad to find her safe out of reach; so she let her cousin heap on shawls, fur cuffs, and boas in a far less leisurely and discriminating manner than was usual with her.

“It would be absolute sneaking (to use an elegant word), I suppose,” said Beatrice, “to go down the back stairs.”

“True,” said Henrietta, “we will even take the bull by the horns.”

“And trust to our heels,” said Beatrice, stealthily opening the door; “the coast is clear, and I know both your mamma and my papa will not stop us if they can help it. One, two, three, and away!”

Off they flew, down the stairs, across the hall, and up the long green walk, before they ventured to stop for Henrietta to put on her gloves, and take up the boa that was dragging behind her like a huge serpent. And after all, there was no need for their flight; they might have gone openly and with clear consciences, had they but properly and submissively waited the decision of their elders. Mr. Geoffrey Langford, who did not know how ill his daughter had been behaving, would have been very sorry to interfere with the plan, and easily reconciled his mother to it, in his own cheerful pleasant way. Indeed her opposition had been entirely caused by Beatrice herself; she had not once thought of objecting when it had been first mentioned the evening before, and had not Beatrice not first fidgeted and then argued, would only have regarded it as a pleasant way of occupying their morning.

“I could scold you, Miss Drone,” said Beatrice when the two girls had set themselves to rights, and recovered breath; “it was all the fault of your dawdling.”

“Well, perhaps it was,” said Henrietta, “but you know I could not see grandmamma lifting those flower-pots without offering to help her.”

“How many more times shall I have to tell you that grandmamma hates to be helped?”

“Then she was very kind to me,” replied Henrietta.

“I see how it will be,” said Beatrice, smiling, “you will be grandmamma’s pet, and it will be a just division. I never yet could get her to let me help her in anything, she is so resolutely independent.”

Queen Bee did not take into account how often her service was either grudgingly offered, or else when she came with a good will, it was also with a way, it might be better, it might be worse, but in which she was determined to have the thing done, and against which her grandmamma was of course equally resolute.

“She is an amazing person!” said Henrietta. “Is she eighty yet?”

“Seventy-nine,” said Beatrice; “and grandpapa eighty-two. I always say I think we should get the prize in a show of grandfathers and grandmothers, if there was one like Uncle Roger’s fat cattle shows. You know she thinks nothing of walking twice to church on a Sunday, and all over the village besides when there is anybody ill. But here is the Sutton Leigh path. Let me see if those boys are to be trusted. Yes, yes, that’s right! Capital!” cried she in high glee; “here is Birnam wood coming across the field.” And springing on one of the bars of the gate near the top, she flourished her handkerchief, chanting or singing,

“Greet thee well, thou holly green, Welcome, welcome, art thou seen, With all thy glittering garlands bending, As to greet my—quick descending:”

she finished in an altered tone, as she was obliged to spring precipitately down to avoid a fall. “It made a capital conclusion, however, though not quite what I had proposed. Well, gentlemen,” as four or five of the boys came up, each bearing a huge holly bush—“Well, gentlemen, you are a sight for sair een.”

“With sair fingers, you mean,” said Fred; “these bushes scratch like half a dozen wild cats.”

“It is in too good a cause for me to pity you,” said Beatrice.

“Nor would I accept it if you would,” said Fred.

His sister, however, seemed determined on bestowing it whether he would or not,—“How your hands are bleeding! Have you any thorns in them? Let me see, I have my penknife.”

“Stuff!” was Fred’s gracious reply, as he glanced at Alex and Carey.

“But why did you not put on your gloves?” proceeded Henrietta.

“Gloves, nonsense!” said Fred, who never went without them at Rocksand.

“He will take up the gauntlet presently,” said Beatrice. “By the by, Alex, how many pairs of gloves have you had or lost in your life?”

“O, I always keep a pair for Sundays and for Allonfield,” said Alex.

“Jessie says she will never let me drive her again without them,” said Carey, “but trust me for that: I hate them, they are such girl’s things; I tell her then she can’t be driven.”

Fred could not bear to hear of Carey’s driving, a thing which he had not yet been permitted to attempt, and he hastily broke in, “You have not told the news yet.”

“What news?”

“The Euphrosyne is coming home,” cried the boys with one voice. “Had we not told you? The Euphrosyne is coming home, and Roger may be here any day!”

“That is something like news,” said Queen Bee; “I thought it would only be that the puppies could see, or that Tom’s tooth was through. Grandpapa has not heard it?”

“Papa is going up to tell him,” said John. “I was going too, only Alex bagged me to carry his holly-bush.”

“And so the great Rogero is coming home!” said Beatrice. “How you will learn to talk sea slang! And how happy grandmamma will be, especially if he comes in time for her great affair. Do you hear, Alex? you must practise your steps, for grandmamma is going to give a grand party, Careys and Evanses, and all, on purpose to gratify Fred’s great love of dancing.”

“I love dancing?” exclaimed Fred, in a tone of astonishment and contempt.

“Why, did you not look quite enraptured at breakfast when it was proposed? I expected you every moment to ask the honour of my hand for the first quadrille, but I suppose you leave it for Philip Carey!”

“If it comes at all you must start me, Bee,” said Alex, “for I am sure I can’t dance with any one but you.”

“Let me request it now,” said Fred, “though why you should think I like dancing I cannot imagine! I am sure nothing but your Majesty can make it endurable.”

“There are compliments to your Majesty,” cried Henrietta, laughing; “one will not or cannot dance at all without her, the other cannot find it endurable! I long to see which is to be gratified.”

“Time will show,” said Beatrice; “I shall ponder on their requests, and decide maturely, Greek against Prussian, lover of the dance against hater of the dance.”

“I don’t love it, I declare,” exclaimed Fred.

“I don’t mind it, if you dance with me,” said Alex.

And Beatrice was in her glory, teasing them both, and feeling herself the object of attention to both.

Flirtation is not a pleasant word, and it is one which we are apt to think applies chiefly to the manners of girls, vain of their personal appearance, and wanting in sense or education. Beatrice would have thought herself infinitely above it; but what else was her love of attention, her delight in playing off her two cousins against each other? Beauty, or the consciousness of beauty, has little to do with it. Henrietta, if ever the matter occurred to her, could not help knowing that she was uncommonly pretty, yet no one could be more free from any tendency to this habit. Beatrice knew equally well that she was plain, but that did not make the least difference; if any, it was rather on the side of vanity, in being able without a handsome face, so to attract and engross her cousins. It was amusing, gratifying, flattering, to feel her power to play them off, and irritate the little feelings of jealousy which she had detected; and thoughtless as to the right or wrong, she pursued her course.

On reaching the church they found that, as was usual with her, she had brought them before any one was ready; the doors were locked, and they had to wait while Carey and John went to old Martha’s to fetch the key. In a few minutes more Mr. Franklin arrived, well pleased to see them ready to fulfil their promise; the west door was opened, and disclosed a huge heap of holly laid up under the tower, ready for use.

The first thing the boys did was to go up into the belfry, and out on the top of the tower, and Busy Bee had a great mind to follow them; but she thought it would not be fair to Mr. Franklin, and the wide field upon which she had to work began to alarm her imagination.

Before the boys came down again, she had settled the plan of operations with Henrietta and Mr. Franklin, dragged her holly bushes into the aisle, and brought out her knife and string. They came down declaring that they could be of no use, and they should go away, and Beatrice made no objection to the departure of Carey and Johnny, who, as she justly observed, would be only in the way; but she insisted on keeping Fred and Alex.

“Look at all those pillars! How are we ever to twine them by ourselves? Look at all those great bushes! How are we to lift them? No, no, indeed, we cannot spare you, Fred. We must have some stronger hands to help us, and you have such a good eye for this sort of thing.”

Had Alexander gone, Fred would have found some excuse for following him, rather than he should leave him with young ladies, doing young ladies’ work; but, as Beatrice well knew, Alex would never withdraw his assistance when she asked Fred’s, and she felt secure of them both.

“There, Alex, settle that ladder by the screen, please. Now will you see if there is anything to tie a piece of string to? for it is of no use to make a festoon if we cannot fasten it.”

“I can’t see anything.”

“Here, give me your hand, and I’ll look.” Up tripped the little Bee, just holding by his hand. “Yes, to be sure there is! Here is a great rough nail sticking out. Is it firm? Yes, capitally. Now, Alex, make a sailor’s knot round it. Help me down first though—thank you. Fred, will you trim that branch into something like shape. You see how I mean. We must have a long drooping wreath of holly and ivy, to blend with the screen. How tough this ivy is! Thank you—that’s it. Well, Mr. Franklin, I hope we shall get on in time.”

Mr. Franklin was sure of it; and seeing all actively employed, and himself of little use, he took his leave for the present, hoping that the Misses Langford would not tire themselves.

Angels’ work is Church decoration—work fit for angels, that is to say; but how pure should be the hands and hearts engaged in it! Its greatness makes it solemn and awful. It is work immediately for the glory of God; it is work like that of the children who strewed the palm-branches before the steps of the Redeemer! Who can frame in imagination a more favoured and delightful occupation, than that of the four young creatures who were, in very deed, greeting the coming of their Lord with those bright and glistening wreaths with which they were adorning His sanctuary?

Angels’ work! but the angels veil their faces and tremble; and we upon earth have still greater cause to tremble and bow down in awful reverence, when we are allowed to approach so near His shrine. And was that spirit of holy fear—that sole desire for His glory—the chief thought with these young people?

Not that there was what even a severe judge could call irreverence in word or deed; there was no idle laughter, and the conversation was in a tone and a style which showed that they were all well trained in respect for the sanctity of the place. Even in all the helping up and down ladders and steps, in the reaching over for branches, in all the little mishaps and adventures that befell them, their behaviour was outwardly perfectly what it ought to have been; and that is no small praise for four young people, under seventeen, left in church alone together for so many hours.

But still Beatrice’s great aim was, unconsciously perhaps, to keep the two boys entirely devoted to herself, and to exert her power. Wonderful power it was in reality, which kept them interested in employment so little accordant with their nature; kept them amused without irreverence, and doing good service all the time. But it was a power of which she greatly enjoyed the exercise, and which did nothing to lessen the rivalry between them. As to Henrietta, she was sitting apart on a hassock, very happy, and very busy in arranging the Monogram and wreath which she had yesterday proposed. She was almost forgotten by the other three—certainly neglected—but she did not feel it so; she had rather be quiet, for she could not work and talk like Queen Bee; and she liked to think over the numerous verses and hymns that her employment brought to her mind. Uncle Geoffrey’s conversation dwelt upon her too; she began to realize his meaning, and she was especially anxious to fulfil his desire, by entreating Fred to beware of temptations to disobedience. Opportunities for private interviews were, however, very rare at Knight Sutton, and she had been looking forward to having him all to herself here, when he must wish to visit his father’s grave with her. She was vexed for a moment that his first attention was not given to it; but she knew that his first thought was there, and boys never showed what was uppermost in their minds to anyone but their sisters. She should have him by and by, and the present was full of tranquil enjoyment.

If Henrietta had been free from blame in coming to Knight Sutton at all, or in her way of leaving the house this morning, there would have been little or no drawback to our pleasure in contemplating her.

“Is it possible!” exclaimed Queen Bee, as the last reverberation of the single stroke of the deep-toned clock fell quivering on her ear. “I thought you would have given us at least eleven more.”

“What a quantity remains to be done!” sighed Henrietta, laying down the wreath which she had just completed. “Your work looks beautiful, Queenie, but how shall we ever finish?”

“A short winter’s day, too!” said Beatrice. “One thing is certain—that we can’t go home to luncheon.”

“What will grandmamma think of that?” said Henrietta doubtfully. “Will she like it?”

Beatrice could have answered, “Not at all;” but she said, “O never mind, it can’t be helped; we should be late even if we were to set off now, and besides we might be caught and stopped.”

“Oh, that would be worse than anything,” said Henrietta, quite convinced.

“So you mean to starve,” said Alex.

“See what slaves men are to creature comforts,” said Beatrice; “what do you say, Henrietta?”

“I had much rather stay here,” said Henrietta; “I want nothing.”

“Much better fun to go without,” said Fred, who had not often enough missed a regular meal not to think doing so an honour and a joke.

“I’ll tell you what will do best of all!” cried Queen Bee. “You go to Dame Reid’s, and buy us sixpennyworth of the gingerbread papa calls the extreme of luxury, and we will eat it on the old men’s bench in the porch.”

“Oho! her Majesty is descending to creature comforts,” said Alex. “I thought she would soon come down to other mortals.”

“Only to gratify her famishing subjects,” said Beatrice, “you disloyal vassal, you! Fred is worth a dozen of you. Come, make haste. She is sure to have a fresh stock, for she always has a great baking when Mr. Geoffrey is coming.”

“For his private eating?” said Fred.

“He likes it pretty well, certainly; and he seldom goes through the village without making considerable purchase for the benefit of the children in his path, who take care to be not a few. I found little Jenny Woods made small distinction between Mr. Geoffrey and Mr. Ginger. But come, Alex, why are you not off?”

“Because I don’t happen to have a sixpence,” said Alex, with an honest openness, overcoming his desire to add “in my pocket.” It cost him an effort; for at school, where each slight advantage was noted, and comparisons perpetually made, Fred’s superior wealth and larger allowance had secured him the adherence of some; and though he either knew it not, or despised such mammon worship, his rival was sufficiently awake to it to be uncomfortable in acknowledging his poverty.

“Every one is poor at the end of the half,” said Fred, tossing up his purse and catching it again, so as to demonstrate its lightness. “Here is a sixpence, though, at her Majesty’s service.”

“And do you think she would take your last sixpence, you honour to loyalty?” said Beatrice, feeling in her pocket. “We are not fallen quite so low. But alas! the royal exchequer is, as I now remember, locked up in my desk at home.”

“And my purse is in my workbox,” said Henrietta.

“So, Fred, I must be beholden to you for the present,” said Beatrice, “if it won’t quite break you down.”

“There are more where that came from,” said Fred, with a careless air. “Come along, Alex.”

Away they went. “That is unlucky,” soliloquised Queen Bee: “if I could have sent Alex alone, it would have been all right, and he would have come back again; but now one will carry away the other, and we shall see them no more.”

“No, no, that would be rather too bad,” said Henrietta. “I am sure Fred will behave better.”

“Mark what I say,” said Beatrice. “I know how it will be; a dog or a gun is what a boy cannot for a moment withstand, and if we see them again ‘twill be a nine days’ wonder. But come, we must to the work; I want to look at your wreath.”

She did not, however, work quite as cheerily as before, and lost much time in running backwards and forwards to peep out at the door, and in protesting that she was neither surprised nor annoyed at the faithlessness of her envoys. At last a droll little frightened knock was heard at the door. Beatrice went to open it, and a whitey-brown paper parcel was held out to her by a boy in a green canvas round frock, and a pair of round, hard, red, solid-looking cheeks; no other than Dame Reid’s grandson.

“Thank you,” said she. “Did Master Alexander give you this?”

“Ay.”

“Thank you, that’s right!” and away he went.

“You see,” said Queen Bee, holding up the parcel to Henrietta, who came out to the porch. “Let us look. O, they have vouchsafed a note!” and she took out a crumpled envelope, directed in Aunt Mary’s handwriting to Fred, on the back of which Alex had written, “Dear B., we beg pardon, but Carey and Dick are going up to Andrews’s about his terrier.—A. L.” “Very cool, certainly!” said Beatrice, laughing, but still with a little pique. “What a life I will lead them!”

“Well, you were a true prophet,” said Henrietta, “and after all it does not much signify. They have done all the work that is out of reach; but still I thought Fred would have behaved better.”

“You have yet to learn the difference between Fred with you or with me, and Fred with his own congeners,” said Beatrice; “you don’t know half the phases of boy nature.”

Henrietta sighed; for Fred had certainly not been quite what she expected him to-day. Not because he had appeared to forget her, for that was nothing—that was only appearance, and her love was too healthy and true even to feel it neglect; but he had forgotten his father’s grave. He was now neglecting the church; and far from its consoling her to hear that it was the way with all boys when they came together, it gave her one moment’s doubt whether they were not happier, when they were all in all to each other at Rocksand.

It was but for one instant that she felt this impression; the next it had passed away, and she was sharing the gingerbread with her cousin, and smiling at the great admiration in which it seemed to be held by the natives of Knight Sutton. They took a short walk up and down the churchyard while eating it, and then returned to their occupation, well pleased, on re-entering, to see how much show they had made already. They worked together very happily; indeed, now that all thought of her squires was quite out of her head, Beatrice worked much more in earnest and in the right kind of frame; something more of the true spirit of this service came over her, and she really possessed some of that temper of devotion which she fancied had been with her the whole day.

It was a beautiful thing when Henrietta raised her face, as she was kneeling by the font, and her clear sweet voice began at first in a low, timid note, but gradually growing fuller and stronger—

“Hark! the herald angels sing Glory to the new-born King, Peace on earth, and mercy mild, God and sinners reconciled.”

Beatrice took up the strain at the first line, and sweetly did their tones echo through the building; while their hearts swelled with delight and thankfulness for the “good tidings of great joy.” Another and another Christmas hymn was raised, and never were carols sung by happier voices; and the decorations proceeded all the better and more suitably beneath their influence. They scarcely knew how time passed away, till Henrietta, turning round, was amazed to see Uncle Geoffrey standing just within the door watching them.

“Beautiful!” said he, as she suddenly ceased, in some confusion; “your work is beautiful! I came here prepared to scold you a little, but I don’t think I can. Who made that wreath and Monogram?”

“She did, of course, papa,” said Beatrice, pointing to her cousin. “Who else could?”

“It is a very successful arrangement,” said Uncle Geoffrey, moving about to find the spot for obtaining the best view. “It is an arrangement to suggest so much.”

Henrietta came to the place where he stood, and for the first time perceived the full effect of her work. It was placed in front of the altar, the dark crimson covering of which relieved the shining leaves and scarlet berries of the holly. The three letters, I H S, were in the centre, formed of small sprays fastened in the required shape; and around them was a large circle of holly, plaited and twined together, the many-pointed leaves standing out in every direction in their peculiar stiff gracefulness.

“I see it now!” said she, in a low voice full of awe. “Uncle, I did not mean to make it so!”

“How?” he asked.

“It is like Good Friday!” said she, as the resemblance to the crown of thorns struck her more and more strongly.

“Well, why not, my dear?” said her uncle, as she shrunk closer to him in a sort of alarm. “Would Christmas be worth observing if it were not for Good Friday?”

“Yes, it is right uncle; but somehow it is melancholy.”

“Where are those verses that say—let me see—

So you see, Henrietta, you have been guided to do quite right.”

Henrietta gave a little sigh, but did not answer: and Beatrice said, “It is a very odd thing, whenever any work of art—or, what shall I call it?—is well done, it is apt to have so much more in it than the author intended. It is so in poetry, painting, and everything else.”

“There is, perhaps, more meaning than we understand, when we talk of the spirit in which a thing is done,” said her father: “But have you much more to do? Those columns look very well.”

“O, are you come to help us, papa?”

“I came chiefly because grandmamma was a good deal concerned at your not coming home to luncheon. You must not be out the whole morning again just at present. I have some sandwiches in my pocket for you.”

Beatrice explained how they had been fed, and her papa said, “Very well, we will find some one who will be glad of them; but mind, do not make her think you unsociable again. Do you hear and heed?”

It was the sort of tone which, while perfectly kind and gentle, shows that it belongs to a man who will be obeyed, and ready compliance was promised. He proceeded to give his very valuable aid at once in taste and execution, the adornment prospered greatly, and when Mr. Franklin came in, his surprise and delight were excited by the beauty which had grown up in his absence. The long, drooping, massive wreaths of evergreen at the east end, centring in the crown and letters; the spiral festoons round the pillars; the sprays in every niche; the tower of holly over the font—all were more beautiful, both together and singly, than he had even imagined, and he was profuse in admiration and thanks.

The work was done; and the two Misses Langford, after one well-satisfied survey from the door, bent their steps homeward, looking forward to the pleasure with which grandpapa and Aunt Mary would see it to-morrow. As they went in the deepening twilight, the whole village seemed vocal: children’s voices, shrill and tuneless near, but softened by distance, were ringing out here, there, and everywhere, with

“As shepherds watch’d their flocks by night.”

And again, as they walked on, the sound from another band of little voices was brought on the still frosty wind—

“Glad tidings of great joy I bring To you and all mankind.”

Imperfect rhymes, bad voices, no time observed; but how joyous,—how really Christmas-like—how well it suited the soft half-light, the last pale shine of sunset lingering in the south-west! the large solemn stars that one by one appeared! How Uncle Geoffrey caught up the lines and sang them over to himself! How light and free Beatrice walked!—and how the quiet happy tears would rise in Henrietta’s eyes!

The singing in the drawing-room that evening, far superior as it was, with Henrietta, Beatrice, Frederick, and even Aunt Mary’s beautiful voice, was not equal in enjoyment to that. Was it because Beatrice was teasing Fred all the time about his defection? The church singers came up to the Hall, and the drawing-room door was set open for the party to listen to them; grandpapa and Uncle Geoffrey went out to have a talk with them, and so passed the space till tea-time; to say nothing of the many little troops of young small voices outside the windows, to whom Mrs. Langford’s plum buns, and Mr. Geoffrey’s sixpences, were a very enjoyable part of the Christmas festivities.