usband and boys might be forced to accept Miss Abingdon's customary
hospitality. Canon Wrottesley received his wife's statement as to the
improvement of her health with ingenuous pleasure. He believed that
she was really looking better, twitted her kindly on her pale cheeks,
and with the optimism which declines to harbour fears and apprehensions
he refused to believe that she was seriously ill. The canon himself
had had a bad cold lately, and his evident wish to believe that his own
malady was as serious as Mrs. Wrottesley's had something pathetic in
it. If he could get rid of a heavy cold and feel quite himself by
Christmas Day, his wife surely would pick up in health as soon as the
warm weather should come. He believed he was doing right in making
light of her ailments, and Mrs. Wrottesley saw all this quite plainly,
and loved him none the less for it.

'How is your cold?' said Miss Abingdon, with sympathy in her voice, and
the vicar threw back his handsome head and tapped his throat, which he
said was a bit husky still, although it was no use giving way to
illness. 'Master your health,' he said in a tone of muscular
Christianity, 'and it won't master you--eh, mamma?' he added, with an
encouraging glance at his wife's pale face on the sofa.

The Vicar of Wakefield, and even Mr. Pickwick himself, had never been
more jovial at a Christmas party than were Miss Abingdon's guests. A
silver bowl in the middle of the table suggested punch; Canon
Wrottesley must brew a wassail bowl. A footman was sent for this thing
and that, for lemons and boiling water--the water must boil, remember?
And too much sugar would spoil the whole thing. The vicar stirred the
ingredients with an air, and poured from time to time a spoonful of the
punch into a wine-glass, and sampled its quality by rolling it in his
mouth and screwing up his eyes.

The wassail bowl being now mixed to his satisfaction, he filled the
glasses of the company, allotting to each lady the thimbleful which he
believed to be a woman's share of any alcoholic beverage, and
extracting compliments from every one. The wassail bowl was a triumph,
and the candle of Mr. Pickwick was put out. Even Dickens' hero could
not have given such an air of jollity to a festive occasion like this.
He toasted every one in the good old-fashioned custom, requesting 'A
glass of wine with you' on this side and on that. After dinner the
presence of Dorothy Avory furnished the pretext f