harp, frosty evenings that wring
barren expressions of pity from our selfish ease for wayfarers and
the poor, and fills us with a luxurious sense of the comfort of the
fireside.

But the family party in the salon at that hour gave not a thought to
absent servants nor houseless folk, nor to the gracious charm with which
a winter evening sparkles. No one played the philosopher out of season.
Secure in the protection of an old soldier, women and children gave
themselves up to the joys of home life, so delicious when there is no
restraint upon feeling; and talk and play and glances are bright with
frankness and affection.

The General sat, or more properly speaking, lay buried, in the depths
of a huge, high-back armchair by the hearth. The heaped-up fire burned
scorching clear with the excessive cold of the night. The good father
leaned his head slightly to one side against the back of the chair, in
the indolence of perfect serenity and a glow of happiness. The languid,
half-sleepy droop of his outstretched arms seemed to complete his
expression of placid content. He was watching his youngest, a boy of
five or thereabouts, who, half clad as he was, declined to allow his
mother to undress him. The little one fled from the night-gown and cap
with which he was threatened now and again, and stoutly declined to part
with his embroidered collar, laughing when his mother called to him,
for he saw that she too was laughing at this declaration of infant
independence. The next step was to go back to a game of romps with his
sister. She was as much a child as he, but more mischievous; and she
was older by two years, and could speak distinctly already, whereas his
inarticulate words and confused ideas were a puzzle even to his parents.
Little Moina's playfulness, somewhat coquettish already, provoked
inextinguishable laughter, explosions of merriment which went off like
fireworks for no apparent cause. As they tumbled about before the
fire, unconcernedly displaying little plump bodies and delicate white
contours, as the dark and golden curls mingled in a collision of rosy
cheeks dimpled with childish glee, a father surely, a mother most
certainly, must have understood those little souls, and seen the
character and power of passion already developed for their eyes. As the
cherubs frolicked about, struggling, rolling, and tumbling without fear
of hurt on the soft carpet, its flowers looked pale beside the glowing
white and red of their