face would betray too much pleasure; he feared to speak, lest his voice
should do the same thing. He was forced to make a great effort to speak in
a judiciously indifferent tone, as he said,--

"Indeed, they are very pretty. I never saw mosses so beautifully arranged;
and it was so thoughtful of her to bring them in for you for Christmas
Eve. I wish we had something to send in to them, don't you?"

"Well, I've been thinking," said his mother, "that we might ask them to
come in and take dinner with us to-morrow. Marty's made some capital
mince-pies, and is going to roast a turkey. I don't believe they'll be
goin' to have any thing better, do you, Stephen?"

Stephen walked very suddenly to the fire, and made a feint of rearranging
it, that he might turn his face entirely away from his mother's sight. He
was almost dumb with astonishment. A certain fear mingled with it. What
meant this sudden change? Did it portend good or evil? It seemed too
sudden, too inexplicable, to be genuine. Stephen had yet to learn the
magic power which Mercy Philbrick had to compel the liking even of people
who did not choose to like her.

"Why, yes, mother," he said, "that would be very nice. It is a long time
since we had anybody to Christmas dinner."

"Well, suppose you run in after tea and ask them," replied Mrs. White, in
the friendliest of tones.

"Yes, I'll go," answered Stephen, feeling as if he were a man talking in a
dream. "I have been meaning to go in ever since they came."

After tea, Stephen sat counting the minutes till he should go. To all
appearances, he was buried in his newspaper, occasionally reading a
paragraph aloud to his mother. He thought it better that she should remind
him of his intention to go; that the call should be purely at her
suggestion. The patience and silence with which he sat waiting for her to
remember and speak of it were the very essence of deceit again,--twice in
this one hour an acted lie, of which his dulled conscience took no note
or heed. Fine and impalpable as the meshes of the spider's-web are the
bands and bonds of a habit of concealment; swift-growing, too, and in
ever-widening circles, like the same glittering net woven for death.

At last Mrs. White said, "Steve, I think it's getting near nine o'clock.
You'd better go in next door before it's any later."

Stephen pulled out his watch. By his own sensations, he would have said
that it must be midnight.

"Yes, it is half-past eight. I