or inaugurating a
country dance in the hall. Canon Wrottesley pushed chairs aside and
rolled rugs up, and before many minutes were over Sir Roger de Coverley
was in full swing, and he was footing it with the indomitable energy of
the man whose feet may be heavy but whose heart is aye young.

Miss Abingdon in grey satin was the vicar's partner, and attempted to
go through the steps in the minuet style; the young Wrottesleys, on the
other hand, were at an age when to be asked to dance Sir Roger de
Coverley can only be construed as deadly insult. Fortunately for them,
the vicar by some strategical movement always found himself in the
enviable position of the dancer who ambles forward to make his bow.

The lady who was playing the piano at last stopped the music with a few
solemn chords, faintly suggestive of an Amen, and Canon Wrottesley, who
was proceeding with his fifth or sixth sally into the middle of the
figure, stopped breathless. Dorothy Avory looked over-heated when the
dance was finished, and as she had furnished the excuse for a rather
poor attempt at romping, her obvious fatigue was quite sufficient to
give the canon an opportunity of a little quiet reading until all were
rested. He put on his spectacles--which he always wore with an air of
apology--and gave out the title of the story, _The Old Vicomte--A
Christmas Episode_.

Doubtless the scene of the story was laid in France, but that fact
hardly justified Canon Wrottesley in reading the whole of it in broken
English. His knowledge of French had always been a matter of pride
with him, and he enjoyed rolling out the foreign names with a perfect
accent.

The number of listeners in the room had diminished considerably before
the reading was finished. Good-nights were said on all sides, the
Vicarage party drove away, and, the conscientious romping and jollity
being over, it may have been felt by some of Miss Abingdon's guests
that the duties of Christmas Day had not been altogether light, and
that now perhaps enforced cheerfulness might be abandoned in favour of
a more easy and natural frame of mind.

Kitty Sherard came into Jane's room in her dressing-gown, with her
hair-brush in her hand, and deliberately relaxed after the fatigues of
the evening. Most girls with such a profusion of curls as Kitty's
would have been content to allow them to wander unrestrained over her
shoulders; but Miss Sherard with her passion for decoration would have
dressed bea