be merry too; so on the whole the breakfast room
was beaming with more than sunlight. Yes, it was a merry
Christmas!--merry without and merry within,--that sort of merriment
which "doeth good like a medicine." Gay voices and steps and
snowballing on the broad street; gay snowbirds and chickadees in the
branches; in the house glad faces; over and upon all, clear sunshine
and the soft hush of a winter's morning.

"What are you going to do to-day, mother?" said Faith towards the close
of breakfast time.

"I'd rather look at you than anything else, child," said her mother,
"but I've got to go out, you know. What are _you_ going to do Faith?"

"All sorts of things, mother. Mr. Linden?"--

"All sorts of things, Miss Faith--therefore we shall probably meet
quite often in the course of the day," he said smiling. "Will you give
me any commands?"

"Perhaps--if I can. Mother, how are we to get to Mrs. Somers
to-night?--is Crab well?"

"O Crab's gone away for the winter, child, and we've got Mr.
Stoutenburgh's Jerry. To be sure--that's since you went away."

The first thing for Faith was the Christmas dinner, into which she
plunged, heart and hand. The turkey, the apples, and the pies, were all
seen to at last; and about an hour before dinner Faith was ready to
take off her kitchen apron and go into the parlour. She longed for a
further touch and eyesight of that red leather.

She had it, for that hour; as dainty a luxuriating over her treasures
as anybody ever had. Faith pondered and dreamed over the photographs,
one after another; with endless marvel and querying of numberless
questions springing out of them,--general and particular, historical,
natural, social, and artistic or scientific. Questions that sometimes
she knew only enough to form vaguely. What a looking over of prints
that was! such an hour as is known by few, few of those who have seen
engravings all their lives. Nay, further than that;--such as is not
known by many a one that stands on the Bridge of sighs, and crosses the
Mer de glace, and sees the smoke curling up from Vesuvius. For once in
a while there is an imaginary traveller at home to whom is revealed
more of the spirit of beauty residing in these things, than hundreds of
those who visit them do ever see. Who

"Feels the warm Orient in the noontide air,
And from cloud-minarets hears the sunset call to prayer."

Before dinner time was quite on the stroke came home Mr. Linden, who
betaking