warm soft light, and reflected on the shining
oak floor.

Saying he would return, Mr. Dipchurch
passed me by softly; and, taking his way down
the long gallery, disappeared in a black
shadow which hung over the end. Then I
drew in the high-backed chair closer, and
stirring up the logs till they cracked again,
fell to thinking how strangely it had come
about that the wanderer was back again
in his old home that night, of all nights
in the year: an eve of jubilee to all
men—vigil of tidings of great joy—which
had brought round at last a sort of dull
quiet and repose to one who had strayed
much, and for whom there was to be now no
more wanderings.

Just as the hare whom hounds and horns pursue,
(this was the weary yearning of another poor
wanderer, long since gone to his rest)
Pants to the spot from which at first it flew,
I still had hopes, my long vexations past,
Here to return, and die at home at last,

Under the shadow of my own roof-tree;
given back again to that stately company on
the walls. Ghostly company indeed! Cold,
fleshless, and bloodless kinsmen; yet all that
were left to me in the room of those real living
ones who had been taken away one by one!
The ghostly company had it nearly all to
themselves now, and within a certain span
of years were certain to have free,
undisturbed range of the old halls. Stiffly
and quaintly they might then come down and
walk all day long, and all night long, to and
fro, in stately dances, without so much as one
to intrude on them. Strange, chilling feeling
this, of being utterly wrecked and stranded
upon one's own home; of being cast upon
a lonely island in one's own house. They were
all gone now: father, sisters, brothers—the
cheerful, exuberant houseful! filling every
corner of the old place with bright, beaming
hope,—with youth and spirits and eternal
jubilee! But of this season especially, how
this brightness of heart burst forth as in a
torrent—sweeping with it friends and neighbours,
kith and kin—drawing them all in
under one roof, to be glad and make merry,
and keep the holy festival with more glory
than in any other spot on the face of the land!

With the cruelest aching of heart, with an
inexpressible yearning, the lonely wanderer
returned thinks of that time separated
now from him by gulf ever so wide. O!
thrice happy days, over which steals the
soft, golden light, that hangs round things
seen from afar! Most vividly do they
come floating back upon me now, as I sit
looking into the fire making out the minutest
pictures. It is as the mouth of a great
arched vault, with a high glowing mound of
wood embers crumbling down with sudden
rustle, and taking all manner of fanciful
shapes. And yet with every change I make out
(O, so clearly!) small, bright figures with
faces familiar, and scenes long, long forgotten;
but, by some mysterious power, evoked on
this night, of all nights in the year. Though
the clock in the court was now clanging out
harshly nine, it did not break in upon these
welcome visions; and I still see pictures in
the red wood embers.

A crumble and a rustle of the ashes, and they
slowly take shape, bringing out elements of
one child's Christmas, long enough back now
to have been rubbed out of all recollection;
with one figure conspicuous; a good rough
squire, heartiest of his kind. Christmas loving,
charity giving, beloved of all friends and
neighbours. Best of all fathers, with the
gentlest beaming eyes. The truest imaginable
picture of the old English squire. To my
child's eyes the most benignant, loveable
being upon earth. Still more of a superior
being at this high festival, in keeping of which
worthily, he took such delight.

All were to be happy—all light-hearted.
The poor fed and clothed; none within a broad
circuit round to have care or sorrow. I see
the embers still crumbling and crumbling,
and settle at last in the fixed shape of one
special Christmas season, now good
five-and-thirty years removed.

Figures flit past figures—well known and
recollected; awful personages to my young
eyes. One, in old-fashioned blue coat and
gilt buttons; top-booted, with a hunting-whip
eternally in his hand—Squire Hornby of
the Grange. A rough, ready, and agricultural
fellow that tramped where he pleased in
those great top-boots. A misty vision next, of
gloom and awe thrown over young hearts, by
feud and terrible strife breaking out between.
our father and rough Squire Hornby. Fierce
looks, fiercer words, angry contention,
followed by appeals to law, attended with
unspeakable dread for the young people of the
house, and all rising out of a petty dispute
about a watercourse. Our father's gentle
eyes would light up and flash, as, pacing up
and down the great room of an evening, he
would declaim on his wrongs, and vow
hostility to his neighbour. He would fight out
the watercourse to the death in the courts or
anywhere he should choose. If it came to
his last shilling, it should go for the water-course.

We listened with frightened hearts,
appalled at this terrible prospect, not being
old enough to know that a watercourse,
or right of way, are objects dearest of all
things in the world to country-gentlemen's
hearts. After Christmas it would come
before the proper tribunals. Then father
should have justice done him. If not there,
he would go on to the House of Lords, and
battle it out there. Finally, if beaten at all
hands, he would sell every stick in the place,
(here his voice would grow tremulous) and
retire to a foreign land to end his days. His
enemy should not have that triumph over
him.