Christmas brought holidays to Miss Sandys' school, but Christmas Eve was, in other respects, very unmarked. It would have been dull, almost grim, to English notions. There was no Christmas tree, no waits, no decorating of the church for the morrow. Still it was the end of the year-the period, by universal consent, dedicated to good-will and rejoicing all over the world-the old "daft days" even of sober, austere Scotland. Jenny and Menie, in the kitchen, were looking forward to that Handsel Monday which is the Whit Monday of country servants, and the family gathering of the peasantry in Scotland. First footing and New-Year's gifts were lighting up the servant girls' imaginations. The former might be safely looked upon as over with Miss Sandys and Miss West, but they were not without visions of New-Year's gifts-the useful, considerate New-Year's gifts of mature years. Miss West was at this moment knitting an exquisitely fine, yet warm, veil which she had begun two months ago, and which she had good hopes of completing within the next few days. Miss Sandys had a guess that this veil was for her velvet bonnet, and looked at it admiringly as a grand panacea for her spring face-ache. In the course of the evening Miss Sandys, after a fit of absence of mind, suddenly asked Miss West's name. On the spur of the moment, she answered, with surprise, "Why, Miss West, to be sure. What do you mean, Miss Sandys?" Then she reflected, laughed, and owned that she had almost forgotten that she had a Christian name. But she had certainly got one, and it was Magdalene, or Madge, or Maddie; once it was Mad; and as she said Mad she laughed a second time, to conceal a break in her voice. Miss Sandys smiled awkwardly and guiltily, and observed quickly, "My Christian name is Christian. Did you know that, Miss West? Oh, I forget; you must have seen it marked on the table and bed linen." "Mine is to be read on my pocket-handkerchiefs. Our Christian names preserved on table-cloths and pocket-handkerchiefs!-droll, isn't it, Miss Sandys?" "Of course they are in our books and letters," corrected matter-of-fact Miss Sandys. "I dare say they are in a couple of family Bibles, too (at least, I can speak for one), and in the records of births and baptisms in session books, if these are not destroyed by damp and rats; and since names are recorded in heaven," Miss Sandys was drawn on to ramble, "surely our Christian names are there, my dear." Miss West knew as well as if she had been told it, that Miss Sandys was about to bestow on her a present with which her Christian name was to be connected. Miss Sandys' eyes had failed through long looking over lessons, and she no longer did any handiwork, save coarse knitting, hemming, and darning. But she had a fuller purse than her companion, and shops, even metropolitan shops, were to be reached by letter from Carter-hill. In addition to the strong tea and the cake, Miss Sandys further treated Miss West to a supper of such dainties as toasted cheese and Edinburgh ale. There were prayers—they seemed quite family prayers with only the four worshippers to join in them. Then there was a shake of the hands, and Miss West lit her candle, retired, and shut herself up in her own little room. Its daily aspect was so unchanged, that it appeared when she entered it as though the holidays had not come, and that it must still be the ordinary bustling school life. She sat down, though there was no fire, and thought a little, till she fell on her knees and prayed in low murmurs that God would enable her to bear this season, which made her heavy, sick, and faint with associations, and that He would render her contented with many undeserved blessings, and resigned to many natural penalties which He ordained. Next, with strange inconsistency to all but the Hearer of prayer and the Framer of the wayward human heart, she besought to be forgiven and delivered from levity and folly-to be kept humble and mindful of death. "It is ill tearing up weeds by the roots," she said to herself plainly, when she had risen from her knees, "and I am vain and volatile, and I like to mystify and tease my neighbour to this day." II. Christmas day rose with a clear, frosty blue sky. Miss Sandys and Miss West both felt the unwonted stillness of the house; and they could not help a lurking suspicion that time without public occupation might hang a dead weight on their hands. The two ladies went through the ceremony of wishing each other a merry Christmas, Scotland though it was Miss Sandys went off to put into execution her hali- 1 day cooking practice-for it was refreshing to her to have a bowl instead of a book in her grasp—and to make her preparations for welcoming her primitive cousins. Miss West sat down to write her letters and to work at her veil and her other New-Year's gifts. She wished she could work with her mind as well. as her fingers, so that it might not run on picturing what this day was in tens of thousands of homes throughout Christendom. It had always been an unruly member this fancy of hers, and it was particularly busy at this season. Yesterday the roas had resounded with the blithe tramp of eager feet hieing homewards. To-day the air was ringizg with the pleasant echo of voices round hearths, the fires of which flashed like the sun, and where age and youth met in the perfect confidence and sweet fearlessness of family affection. In her mind's eye, she had yesterday seen railways and coaches disgorging their cheerful loads; she had witnessed the meetings at lodge gates, in halls, and on the thresholds of parlours and cottage kitchens; she had looked on bountiful boards, where cherished guests crowned the festival, of which Miss Sandys' rasping tea and stale cake was a half-pathetic, half-comic version. To-day she was in spirit with the multitude walking in close groups to holly-wreathed churches. sharing in the light-hearted thoughtlessness of many an acknowledgment, and in the deep gratitude of many a thanksgiving. She strove to put hers aside altogether in her meditations, and simply to cure. But Miss West was loyal. She walked with the Captain, so that he might have more than his one smoke a day, and perseveringly copied and sang Braham's songs for him. She designed and cut out patterns for Mrs. Berwick, who, as the Captain had saved money, did not make her own dresses, but nevertheless loved to accumulate patterns of sleeves, capes, and flounces. She listened to her tales, and helped her to as much more kitchiana as she could produce on short notice. She told how Betsy had worn feathers and been taken to prison on suspicion of theft; and how Marianne her sister had hoarded her wages in order to secure legal advice for Betsy, and had captivated and married an officer of the court in which Betsy had been tried, and how it had all happened in a family where Miss West had lived. rejoice with those who rejoiced; but she had not of Captain and Mrs. Berwick was therefore no sineattained this degree of unselfishness; she could not help believing sometimes that she had plucked all the thorns and none of the roses of life. But if you suppose that she betrayed this yearning and pining to the world at large, you are very much mistaken. As has been told, she had the right chord of genuine nobility and generosity in her, and she laboured to fit her cross to her own back, so that it might not overshadow and crush others. Her fingers went nimbly about her gifts-trifling things, only enough to gladden simple hearts. She gratified Miss Sandy's by praising her rusty accomplishments in cookery; she uttered a jest or two for the benefit of Jenny and Menie, who had a liking for her, though they called her "scornful;" and she brought in holly and box from the garden to decorate the sitting rooms. The last move, however, proved nearly a failure, for there was one little pink and white blossom of lauristinus, which had ventured out in a sheltered nook, though half of its leaves were blanched ashen grey. It somehow or other raised such a tide of sentiment in her as all but overcame her. Miss West desired work for this season, and she got work, and tolerably hard work too, for besides completing her New-Year's gifts, she had to help to entertain Captain and Mrs. Berwick. The visitors were so vulgar, according to fine people, that they were not even sensible of their own vulgarity. And so good-natured were they, that they were not offended because cousin Sandys did not invite them with any of the genteel parents of her pupils. They took this reserved hospitality as a complimentary admission of their kinsmanship. But they were not intrinsically more coarse-minded than many dukes and duchesses. Captain Berwick, it is true, was nautical in his tone, and talked shop, but that is permitted to sea captains in novels, nay, enjoined upon them. He was apt to be broad in his jokes, and to use unwarrantable expressions, for which he bent his shock head in penitent apology the moment after he had used them. "It is the effect of bad habits, Kirsten and Peggy," he would cry: "you women know nothing of bad habits any more than of bad words." Mrs. Berwick was a particularly round-eyed woman, and was plump and ruddy where the Captain was battered and weather-beaten. She placed the scene of most of her narratives in the kitchens of her acquaintances, and scrambled with her dramatis persone through the strong situations of a servant's history. Nevertheless the manner of the Berwicks was not without the refreshing influence of common, rude fresh air. They were not exceptionally coarse-minded, but unluckily they were neither strong nor fine minded. They were ponderous, clumsy beings, and although genuine and warm-hearted, were destitute of internal resources. They expected to be constantly eating and drinking, or to be constantly entertained. If they were not entertained, they showed their weariness without restraint, by yawning outrageously. The entertaining III. Captain and Mrs. Berwick were gone. The holidays at Carter-hill were all but ended-" all but ended," Miss Sandys repeated with a little sigh of relief, and an inclination to moralise on that weariness which is the result of pleasure. When Miss West came down in the morning the kettle was steaming on the hob, the teapot under its cosie, and the couple of rolls and the dish of sausages were set in their places. Miss Sandys-her working apron lying ready to take up on the side-table behind her— was bent to the last on buns and pork pies, though she frankly admitted they were vanity. But the girls must be broken from their home dainties by degrees, and Jenny and Menie must have "cakes" to carry to their homes on their Handsel Monday. Miss West found a letter on her plate. It caused her complexion to change, and her sharp eyes to fasten on it fixedly. No wonder her head swam and her ears rang. She was going through the uncomfortable process of turning back some ten or twelve years in her life. It was a strange letter to come to her-a large letter, which had been charged double postage; a letter with the elements of mortification in it, as well as other elements, both to sender and receiver. It was written in a big, scampering hand. "Dear Mad," it began, "it is so queer to be addressing you again. I remember when I used to say 'Mad' to a white-faced, dark-eyed girl. Was she pretty, I wonder? Some people said so, but I don't know, only I have never seen a face quite equal to hers since-never. Mad and I were great friends when I used to visit her elder brother; great friends, indeed, in a bantering, biting way. But it was Mad who bantered and bit; certainly I did not banter and bite again, rarely even so much as gave a gentle pinch, for I would not have hurt Mad for the world, and Mad did not hurt me. At least she never meant it seriously, and she was always so piteously penitent when she thought she had wounded my feelings. Oh, dear, quizzing Mad! she had such a soft heart in its bristling shell, and I hurt it. I hurt Mad-yes, I know; I know to my sorrow and shame. "Mad, do you remember how you went every day to meet a timid little brother coming from school along a lonely moorland road, where there were broomy braes in June and heathery. braes in September? What a convenient custom it was for me, since the little brother, unlike little monsters of the same kind, had neither eyes nor ears but for his own avocations, and trotted on obediently in front of us. The sight of my own little Bill's satchel gives me a turn, and makes me feel spoony to this day. Do you remember your great dog, Mad? (what a child you were for pets!)—and who it was used to go to the kennel to feed it with you? If that dog had been a true Bevis, it would have torn that hulking fellow where he stood; yet he meant no harm; nay, he had a strong persuasion that he was doing something meritorious (how he hit it I can't tell) in not committing himself and binding you when he had no more than a clerk's paltry income. But I have heard that trees, stripped of leaves in flowery May, revenge themselves by bursting out green, if the frosts will let them, in toggy November. So the prudence of twenty-five may be the folly of thirty-five. It was rank meanspiritedness in me not to go through thick and thin, through flood and fire, for Mad. What in the world was worth striving for if she was not worth it? Ah, I lost my chance when I might have taken it, and trusted the rest to Providence! But I did not know, though I fancied I did, the value of the jewel, the price of which, in stern seiz Jestraint, I refused to pay. I might have been another man if I had not been so prudent, for, as I have said, not another face has been to me quite (no, not by a long chalk) what Mad's once was. It was only yesterday that I heard by chance and the story has haunted me since-that Mad is still a single woman, her family all dispersed, and she a teacher in a school my quizzing, affectionate Mad a drudging, lonely teacher! "After being so prudent, it is not wonderful to record that I was fickle, though circumstances, and not my will, separated Mad and me at first. I could not get down to the old place so regularly as I was wont to do, which annoyed me, and I did my best to get rid of the obstacles. When I did get down, Mad was not at home, and I had no right to follow her. We met seldomer; we grew stiffer and stranger to each other. You are acquainted with the process, Miss West, though perhaps not fully with my share in it. The impression which Mad had made on me, unique as it was, faded and was overlaid by others. I met another girl, whom I liked too, and whom it appeared so much simplermore expedient and advantageous-for me to love and to marry. I married her, breaking no vows, not writing myself faithless, far less treacherous, but only fickle. Yet I had once known, if ever man knew, that I had made Mad's strong heart-I think it was strong, although it was soft to me-beat in tune with mine. I had done all I could, short of saying the words, to impress Mad with what were my wishes and intentions, I had preferred her in every company, followed her when I was down at the old place, like her shadow (her shadow, indeed!). I had elected her my confidante and adviser, and poured all my precious opinions and plans-my very scrapes. into her curious, patient ears. Mad, have you forgotten how once, like an old-fashioned, grandi| loquent muff, I showed you the picture of a perfect woman in a book of poetry- Paradise Lost' it might have been, and 'Eve' for any special appropriateness in the picture-and broadly hinted my private idea that the perfect woman was fulfilled in Mad!-lively, faulty Mad! Your sisters were very anxious to read! the passage which I had selected for your study, and from which I was evidently pointing a moral; but you closed the book abruptly in the old seat behind the round tea-table with the brass rim. I suppose the sisters don't know the passage to this day? "Having been fickle, I was a great deal better off in my wife than I deserved. Remember, Mad, my wife and the mother of my children was a good woman; I was reasonably happy with her, and I trust I bore her tender reverence. She died and left me with our children two winters ago. When we meet again, it will be where there is neither marrying nor giving in marriage. Now, when I can do her no wrong, I think of another to whom I did wrong; than whom there was never another to me the same-no, nothing like it. Learning that Mad has been true-oh! Mad, you could never have been anything else but true-I have wondered whether I might not be allowed to do something to atone, whether I was not worth having still, and whether I could not -a bold phrase, but it will out-make it up to Mad, a solitary single woman, a teacher in a school. Mad, I say again, what a hard fate for you! "I cannot offer an immense inducement. I am not a merchant prince, though I am richer than I was in the old days; yet somehow I do not care to boast of my riches to Mad, and I am a widower with two small children-not models. I dare not send you my carte, and I don't want yours. You are always the same Mad to me that you have been through all those years, and will be to the end of the chapter, whether you answer me yes or no. You will answer yes. You were always great for magnanimity, and flamed up on it, dark eyes, white cheeks, and all, when you were a wild lassie. Don't tell me you are less magnanimous as a brave, hardworking woman, or you will sap my faith in womankind. "Mad, how this Christmas season stirs me with the far-off murmurs of another Christmas, when you and I pulled the holly and the other thing-the thing with the tiny, fair, frost-bitten clusters of blossom-some sort of laurel wasn't it? That old Christmas, who can describe? What glamour over the prosaic family dinner and carpet dance to see the old year out and the new year in? Say the word, Mad, and before the first full moon of this new year has waned to half a cheese she will shine down upon us, anew, with the old shining. I swear it on the part of your old friend, BILL NAIRNE." What Miss West said when she read the letter was, "Make it up, indeed! Redeem me from such |