e least estrangement between them, and almost as if she were still
Lady Mary Nugent. Handsome as ever, and perfectly well-bred, she almost
made even Freda believe, after her long absence from her, that she
really was what she seemed. However, Freda tried to take her as she was,
and to feel thankful that she was no worse. It was she who principally
kept up the conversation; Freda made great efforts, and signally failed,
and Mr Gwynne never talked much.

After dinner, Freda proposed to go and see the little brother. As she
looked at the magnificent boy who lay peacefully sleeping in his little
crib, she was thankful to be able to kiss him, and say, 'God bless you,
my brother,' without feeling angered that he had deprived her of the
inheritance she had once been so proud of. She knew that Lady Mary was
watching her narrowly, but there was no hypocrisy in her affection, so
she did not care.

They went down to the library, where were Mr Gwynne, tea and coffee.

'Is he not a splendid fellow, my dear?' said Mr Gwynne.

'He certainly is, papa,' replied Freda, aloud, saying inwardly, 'and
everything with you now. I am quite second--third I ought to say.'

This was true; Mr Gwynne was proud of his wife and son. The former took
care of him, and did not greatly interfere with his pursuits or
peculiarities, the latter gave him new life and hopes. An heir in his
old age was a gift that might well exceed that of the daughter who could
not perpetuate his name.

Freda was glad when she went to bed, which she did as soon as tea was
over. It was a great relief to sit down once more in the easy-chair
which had helped to nurse so many crude fancies and humours in days gone
by, and think over the past and present. There was an atmosphere of
unreality about everything at Glanyravon, that she hoped to clear off on
the morrow, so she resolved to try not to feel depressed under its
influence; but having once known what it was to enjoy living with real,
working men and women, with aims beyond the formalities of society, it
seemed hard to be thrown back upon the cold worldliness of her
stepmother, and the selfish nervousness of her father.

She was, however, aroused on the blessed morning of Christmas Day by
something that was very real.

'A merry Kismas, sister Freda,' shouted a sharp little voice into her
ear, and before her eyes were half opened brisk little feet were
stamping at her bedside, and the same voice authoritatively enouncing