would have been more practically useful in
the well-remembered lessons. But, never
mind what the pupils learnt, if they learnt
only to study and to teach themselves as they
grew older. That the old Doctor taught,
and taught it kindly, too : for that they loved
him. What a magnificent speech the young
Barrister is making, who proposes bumpers
for a toast ! He is a fine young fellow ; and,
whatever tears he may weep, hereafter, for a
fee, there is a true tear of Christmas love and
kindliness sparkling about his eyelash, as
he proceeds, through a storm of applause, to
eulogize " our dear old Teacher." Then the
old Doctor rises to reply ; and he must be
seized with a demon — the good demon of
Christmas — for he can only look utter
benevolence, and stammer out, " God bless you all !
I 'm very happy."

Miss Twit sits at the hostess's right hand,
beside a quieter, but not less friendly board.
She is thin, pale, bordering on fifty. There
is a sweet smile upon her face; she is
inexpressibly lady-like and quiet; but, in her
quietness, one feels a touch of resignation.
She has but one relation, who is rich, and does
not encourage her intimacy. She keeps a
school; and is now dining with the parents
of her eldest pupil. A very pretty, unaffected,
clever girl that eldest pupil seems to be;
and she sits by the schoolmistress, lovingly
watchful of her wants, and forcing all good
things upon her plate with child-like
assiduity. It is the belief of her pupils
that Miss Twit has had some great grief; and
the young ladies, of course, interpret that
into the fact, that she has had a lover who
has died — or something of that sort; but, of
course, it had to do with love. And if she
had a lover ever, the young ladies say, how
wonderfully she must have loved him, because
they never hear her speak an unkind word of
any one; and she seems to have, in all her
quietness, such energy for being good and
tender, that they suppose he must have died;
for nobody able to love as Miss Twit must
have done, could ever possibly have been
deserted. So the girls think of the school-
mistress so tenderly, that it would not cost
even a vixen much pains to think, in return,
tenderly of them. Nor are the parents,
generally speaking, less solicitous about the gentle
lady, who is so attentive to their girls. Miss
Twit, although quiet, will by no means be a
dummy, when the curtains shall be drawn
tonight, and the lamp lighted, and the parlour
games begin. She is the great authority on
forfeits; she knows more riddles than an
elephant can carry, and they are not prim,
stiff-backed things, but they have all quaint,
easy answers, meant to make you laugh. As
a stage-manager over the performance of acted
charades, she is the wittiest and cleverest, and
dearest creature, all her pupils say. Miss
Twit creates marvels of happiness without
much outward variation from her gentle quiet
way. And those who make a happy Christmas
are the folks to feel the Christmas peace ;
and so we need not pity Miss Twit as she sits
at dinner, by the right hand of the hostess,
under her eldest pupil's very busy care.

Dame Farran gets but twopence a week
from the little boys and girls who learn of
her what nouns are, and how much is eight
times nine. The poor dame cannot see without
her spectacles, and she needs them to see
her Christmas mutton-chop. A tap at the door
disturbs her while she is turning it over the fire,
and a little fellow with " Please, ma'am, mother's
love," produces a plate-full of roast goose. The
mutton-chop is put by for to-morrow; and it
had not reached the cupboard, before another
"Mother's love" does homage to the teacher
of the children, with an offering of pudding.
Then there is a little rain of "Mother's love " at
two o'clock; one drop is goose; two, beef; and
four, pudding. Dame Farran had resolved to sit
at home and think about a son far out at sea, but
she could not escape the Christmas hospitality.

With whom does the French Usher dine ?
or does he sit at home before a sheet of writing
paper, and pour love, not upon it — upon the
mother or the sister vividly presented to his
mind? Has he received a Christinas greeting
from his distant home, which lies before him
on thin rustling paper, rustling with his
frequent touch, as he reads and re-reads tender
words, the dew so rarely falling on his soul?
Does he sit by the fire after dinner with a
portrait in his hand? Does he think of a
pair of blue eyes that may be bent elsewhere
over a picture of himself, thinking of him as a
something glorious and noble, not the mean,
friendless being he is sometimes thought to
be while following his daily task in England?

We are all teachers. The baby who can
only lisp, has truths to teach to an attentive
pupil. We are all teachers, and we are all
taught, or should let ourselves be taught. A
glorious Holiday in the great School of the
World is Christmas-day, when, though there
be teaching, still every hard task is thrust
into a corner, every birch is locked up in a
cupboard; and the one lesson of the day which
we agree not to put from us, and even to fetch
down from the shelf and learn afresh, if we
should chance of late to have forgotten it, is
how to make peace on earth; how to be proud
enough to forgive, and humble enough to
consent to be forgiven.

Now Ready, price 2d.,
AN EXTRA NUMBER
OF
HOUSEHOLD WORDS.
SHOWING
WHAT CHRISTMAS IS TO EVERYBODY.

Next Week will be published, Price 3s. 6d.,
THE FIRST VOLUME OF
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND.
BY CHARLES DICKENS.
Collected and Revised from "Household Words,"
With a Table of Dates.
BRADBURY AND EVANS, 11, BOUVERIE STREET.