lushed, and her lips
dimpling with a house-wifely delight that everything was so nice and
neat, she startled us by a little cry of pleasure. And there, in the
doorway, stood my father!

His broad figure, but slightly bent even now, his smooth-shaven face,
withered, but of a pale brown still, with the hard lines softening
down, and the keen eyes kinder than they used to be; dressed carefully
in his First-day clothes, the stainless white kerchief supporting his
large chin, his Quaker's hat in one hand, his stick in the other,
looking in at us, a half-amused twitch mingling with the gravity of his
mouth--thus he stood--thus I see thee, O my dear old father!

The young couple seemed as if they never could welcome him enough. He
only said, "I thank thee, John," "I thank thee, Ursula;" and took his
place beside the latter, giving no reason why he had changed his mind
and come. Simple as the dinner was--simple as befitted those who,
their guests knew, could not honestly afford luxuries; though there
were no ornaments, save the centre nosegay of laurustinus and white
Christmas roses--I do not think King George himself ever sat down to a
nobler feast.

Afterwards we drew merrily round the fire, or watched outside the
window the thickly falling snow.

"It has not snowed these two months," said John; "never since the day
our little girl was born."

And at that moment, as if she heard herself mentioned, and was
indignant at our having forgotten her so long, the little maid
up-stairs set up a cry--that unmistakable child's cry, which seems to
change the whole atmosphere of a household.

My father gave a start--he had never seen or expressed a wish to see
John's daughter. We knew he did not like babies. Again the little
helpless wail; Ursula rose and stole away--Abel Fletcher looked after
her with a curious expression, then began to say something about going
back to the tan-yard.

"Do not, pray do not leave us," John entreated; "Ursula wants to show
you our little lady."

My father put out his hands in deprecation; or as if desiring to thrust
from him a host of thronging, battling thoughts. Still, came faintly
down at intervals the tiny voice, dropping into a soft coo of pleasure,
like a wood-dove in its nest--every mother knows the sound. And then
Mrs. Halifax entered holding in her arms her little winter flower, her
baby daughter.

Abel Fletcher just looked at it and her--closed his eyes against both,
and looked n