the lasting ill-will of the overseer by refusing him. I stood
responsible for everybody's good behaviour, and had no forfeits to pay.
And enjoyment reigned, during those days, in the barn; a gay enjoyment,
full of talk and of singing as well as of feasting; full of laughter and
jokes, and full of utmost good-humour and kindness from one to another.
Again, most unlike a party of Celtic origin. It was enjoyment to me too;
very great; though dashed continually by the thought how rare and strange
it was to those around me. Only for my sake and dependent on my little
hand of power; having no guarantee or security else for its ever coming
again. As the holiday drew near its end, my heart grew sore often at the
thought of all my poor friends going back into their toil, hopeless and
spiritless as it was, without one ray to brighten the whole year before
them till Christmas should come round again. Ay, and this feeling was
quickened every now and then by a word, or a look, or a tone, which told
me that I was not the only one who remembered it. "Christmas is almos'
gone, Tony," I heard one fine fellow say to another at the end of the
third day; and under the words there was a thread of meaning which gave a
twitch to my heartstrings. There were bursts of song mingled with all
this, which I could not bear to hear. In the prayer-meetings I did not
mind them; here, in the midst of festivities, they almost choked me. "I'm
going home" sounded now so much as if it were in a strange land; and once
when a chorus of them were singing, deep and slow, the refrain,

"In the morning--
Chil'len, in the morning--"

I had a great heartbreak, and sat down and cried behind my sugarplums.

I can bear to think of it all now. There were years when I could not.

After this entertainment was over, and much more stupid ones had been
given among polished people at the house, and the New Year had swept
in upon us with its fresh breeze of life and congratulations, the
winter and Miss Pinshon settled down for unbroken sway.

I had little to help me during those months from abroad. That is, I
had nothing. My father wrote seldom. My mother's letters had small
comfort for me. They said that papa's health mended slowly--was very
delicate--he could not bear much exertion--his head would not endure
any excitement. They were trying constant changes of scene and air.
They were at Spa, at Paris, at Florence, at Vevay, in the Pyrenees;
not