ow me. Here I am a woman loved and respected." My
friend passed in and spoke to the older woman, the wife of one of his
host's tenants, and she turned towards, and introduced the younger--"My
daughter, sir. We do not see her very often. She is in a place in
London, and cannot get away. But she always spends a few days with us at
Christmas."

"It is the season for family re-unions," answered my friend with just
the suggestion of a sneer, for which he hated himself.

"Yes, sir," said the woman, not noticing; "she has never missed her
Christmas with us, have you, Bess?"

"No, mother," replied the girl simply, and bent her head again over her
work.

So for these few days every year this woman left her furs and jewels,
her fine clothes and dainty foods, behind her, and lived for a little
space with what was clean and wholesome. It was the one anchor holding
her to womanhood; and one likes to think that it was, perhaps, in
the end strong enough to save her from the drifting waters. All which
arguments in favour of Christmas and of Christmas customs are, I admit,
purely sentimental ones, but I have lived long enough to doubt whether
sentiment has not its legitimate place in the economy of life.

ON THE TIME WASTED IN LOOKING BEFORE ONE LEAPS

Have you ever noticed the going out of a woman?

When a man goes out, he says--"I'm going out, shan't be long."

"Oh, George," cries his wife from the other end of the house, "don't go
for a moment. I want you to--" She hears a falling of hats, followed by
the slamming of the front door.

"Oh, George, you're not gone!" she wails. It is but the voice of
despair. As a matter of fact, she knows he is gone. She reaches the
hall, breathless.

"He might have waited a minute," she mutters to herself, as she picks up
the hats, "there were so many things I wanted him to do."

She does not open the door and attempt to stop him, she knows he is
already half-way down the street. It is a mean, paltry way of going out,
she thinks; so like a man.

When a woman, on the other hand, goes out, people know about it. She
does not sneak out. She says she is going out. She says it, generally,
on the afternoon of the day before; and she repeats it, at intervals,
until tea-time. At tea, she suddenly decides that she won't, that she
will leave it till the day after to-morrow instead. An hour later she
thinks she will go to-morrow, after all, and makes arrangements to wash
her hair overnight. F