e, if one
would listen--about her ailments and the servants' delinquencies. She
is never without a cold in her head, and a half-darned stocking! She
calls the children's pinafores 'pinbefores,'--which is quite correct,
but very unpleasant; and she always calls terrible 'turrible;' but
beyond these small failings she is quite bearable."

And so on. When Miss Broughton receives this letter in her distant
home, she is again solemistress of a sickroom. Her aunt--the hard
taskmaster assigned to her by fate--lies on her bed stricken to the
earth by fever. To come to Pullingham now will be impossible. "Will
Mrs. Redmond wait for a month, or perhaps two?" She entreats Clarissa
to do what she can for her; and Clarissa does it; and the worried wife
of the vicar, softened by Miss Peyton's earnest explanations, consents
to expound Pinnock and "Little Arthur" to the small Redmonds until
such time as Miss Broughton's aunt shall be convalescent.

"The inaudible and noiseless foot of Time" creeps on apace, and
Christmas at last reaches Pullingham. Such a Christmas, too!--a
glorious sunny Christmas morning, full of light and life, snow-crowned
on every side. The glinting sunbeams lie upon the frozen hills,
kissing them with tender rapture, as though eager to impart some heat
and comfort to their chilly hearts.

"Now trees their leafy hats do bare
To reverence Winter's silver hair."

The woods are all bereft of green; the winds sigh wearily through
them; "no grass the fields, no leaves the forests wear;" a shivering
shroud envelops all the land.

But far above, in the clear sky, Sol shines triumphant. Nor ice, nor
snow, nor chilling blast has power to deaden him to-day. No "veil of
clouds involves his radiant head." He smiles upon the earth, and
ushers in the blessed morn with unexpected brilliancy. Innumerable
sounds swell through the frosty air; sweet bells ring joyously. All
the world is astir.

Except Clarissa. She lies, still sleeping,--dreaming, it may be, that
first glad dream of youth in which all seems perfect, changeless,
passion-sweet!

Upon her parted lips a faint soft smile is lingering, as though loath
to depart. Her face is lightly tinged with color, as it were a
"ripened rose." Upon one arm her cheek is pillowed; the other is
thrown, with negligent grace, above her head.

"Half-past eight, Miss Peyton, and Christmas morning; too," says a
voice more distinct than musical, and rather reproachful. It rushes
i