It was getting on all the while to his
favourite season; which promised to be as
frost-bound and snow-clad as festival heart
could desire.

Great stores of provisions had been laid in.
Father was busy from morning till night in
the furthering of that design which always lay
nearest to his heart; namely,—that no poor
soul in the parish should have a troubled soul
at this famous season; but should be filled
and made merry, and as warm as plenty of
coal and blanketing could make him. Never
was he so busy, so vigorous, so full of the
genial holy spirit of the season. Each day
that lessened the distance between him and
the great day, lightened this temper of his;
until, at last, it came to be the morning of the
great eve itself. I see in the red embers
figure's moving and flitting past indistinctly;
genial faces lit up by honest glow, whitest
snow covering the ground thickly. I make
out that one figure, centre of all, moving
hither and thither, rubbing his hands in glee;
for there had reached him news that morning
from high law authority, that all would
turn out well for him in the matter of the
watercourse. There was a great jubilee
through all the house! most seasonable
Christmas present, that horn of news!

That Christmas Eve wore on cheerily,
until it came to grow dusk, and lamps were
lighted: when I see some one riding up the
long open avenue through the snow; some
one to see the Squire, and wish him a merry
Christmas, and who mentions, as a bit
of news, that neighbour Hornby has that
morning heard of the death of his only
daughter in a foreign country, and was sunk
and bowed down with trouble as much as a
man could be.  I see on that evening when
the long room is lighted up and the floor so
polished that it reflects back the light—I see
our dear father come in among us (over to
this great fire-place where I now sit looking
back into the past), with a little trouble on his
face: then he walks about restlessly, talking
softly to himself; then stops, and finally goes
to his desk. I see him sit down and write
hastily—we speaking together softly over the
fire—and seal the letter with his own great
seal; then send it off by a man on horseback.
O, how I have before me his gentle face, as he
comes over again to the fire, rubbing his
hands softly, with such a pleased look.

"Do you know," I think I hear him say, in
tones that make my heart thrill, "dear
children, what was written in that letter?"

"That you were to win the watercourse,
papa," says my little sister, gleefully, "and
beat that nasty Mr. Hornby."

I see his face twitch a little. "No," he
says, gently, "we have done, now, I am afraid,
with the watercourse—done with it for
ever. Do you know what I told you this
morning of Squire Hornby and his daughter?
We are all happy here to-night—O, so happy!
—and shall be happier, please Heaven,
tomorrow. So shall everybody be about us,
excepting a poor squire whose house is hung
with mourning. Well, to him I have sent
the watercourse, as a little Christmas
present. Have I done right?" Then he looks
round with those ever gentle eyes upon his
children.

And here, with sudden rustle, the wood
embers sink down, and that picture fades
away from me.

I am still the lonely outcast, sitting over
the fire with a most intolerable yearning for
flesh and blood sympathy which I cannot
have now. O, for something to cling to!
something to hold by—not to be so utterly
cast adrift!

The old clock-chimes are again at work,
tolling eleven; for a flood of small details
have filled up that hour, which seems to have
been barely a few minutes. These Christmas
anniversaries at the old Hall were rare
times: they make my poor heart ache, thinking
of them. Stir the logs; cast on a few
fresh ones!

Here I am set afloat once more—tided far
away, backwards; until I make out clearly
other pictures, other figures.

Sent away to sea from the old house, at
fourteen, having always a fancy for the naval
profession; often, when tossing in my cheerless
hammock, when roughly handled, as is
the fashion on the ocean, I looked back to
those happy Christmas days, with a sickening,
despairing feel. Often, when lying in
dull idleness off a sickly African coast, the
Great Festival has come round and been let
to slip by without celebration, I thought how
far away, in Mytton Grange, it was being
kept with mirth and genial warmth. How
about four o'clock, or so, the cold evening
was drawing close in, and the daylight
departing; and through the snow, which
gave light enough of its own, hearty
folk were tramping briskly up to the Hall;
for whom there were beacons, in the
shape of red patches of fire-light up and
down the front of the great house, to guide
them. Light enough inside, too, in the great
hall; where the feast was set out, the grand
annual Christmas feast, with the squire at
the head of his table, from which not one
was absent.

A rustle and collapse of embers, and I am
set a-thinking of another scene one year
later, when I was still upon the seas; but, on
the eve of being temporarily set free. I
think of the ardent longing, that eager straining
to span across the broadest tracts of sea
and land; of hurried marches; of journeying
homeward night and day, with panting
excited spirits, all to the one end, to reach
home against the Great Festival. I think of
that setting down of feet once more upon
English ground; of that furious posting—whip
and spur, double gratuities; of that nearing
familiar objects, loved landmarks, and finally
of the dark building so longed for, standing