essed it, and made haste to dress, dismal
reflections crowding on his mind. But it was less from terror than from
regret that he now suffered; and with his regret there were mingled
cutting pangs of penitence. There had fallen upon him a blow, cruel,
indeed, but yet only the punishment of old misdoing; and he had rebelled
and plunged into fresh sin. The rod had been used to chasten, and he had
bit the chastening fingers. His father was right: John had justified
him; John was no guest for decent people's houses, and no fit associate
for decent people's children. And had a broader hint been needed, there
was the case of his old friend. John was no drunkard, though he could at
times exceed; and the picture of Houston drinking neat spirits at his
hall-table struck him with something like disgust. He hung back from
meeting his old friend. He could have wished he had not come to him; and
yet, even now, where else was he to turn?

These musings occupied him while he dressed, and accompanied him into
the lobby of the house. The door stood open on the garden; doubtless
Alan had stepped forth; and John did as he supposed his friend had done.
The ground was hard as iron, the frost still rigorous; as he brushed
among the hollies, icicles jingled and glittered in their fall; and
wherever he went, a volley of eager sparrows followed him. Here were
Christmas weather and Christmas morning duly met, to the delight of
children. This was the day of reunited families, the day to which he had
so long looked forward, thinking to awake in his own bed in Randolph
Crescent, reconciled with all men and repeating the footprints of his
youth; and here he was alone, pacing the alleys of a wintry garden and
filled with penitential thoughts.

And that reminded him: why was he alone? and where was Alan? The thought
of the festal morning and the due salutations reawakened his desire for
his friend, and he began to call for him by name. As the sound of his
voice died away, he was aware of the greatness of the silence that
environed him. But for the twittering of the sparrows and the crunching
of his own feet upon the frozen snow, the whole windless world of air
seemed to hang over him entranced, and the stillness weighed upon his
mind with a horror of solitude.

Still calling at intervals, but now with a moderated voice, he made the
hasty circuit of the garden, and finding neither man nor trace of man in
all its evergreen coverts, turned at last to th