was
playfully advanced above her head, bounding out of reach like some
little chamois.

Her movements had the supple softness, the velvet grace of a kitten;
her laugh was clearer than the ring of silver and crystal; as she took
her sire's cold hands and rubbed them, and stood on tiptoe to reach his
lips for a kiss, there seemed to shine round her a halo of loving
delight. The grave and reverend seignor looked down on her as men _do_
look on what is the apple of their eye.

"Mrs. Bretton," said he: "what am I to do with this daughter or
daughterling of mine? She neither grows in wisdom nor in stature. Don't
you find her pretty nearly as much the child as she was ten years ago?"

"She cannot be more the child than this great boy of mine," said Mrs.
Bretton, who was in conflict with her son about some change of dress
she deemed advisable, and which he resisted. He stood leaning against
the Dutch dresser, laughing and keeping her at arm's length.

"Come, mamma," said he, "by way of compromise, and to secure for us
inward as well as outward warmth, let us have a Christmas wassail-cup,
and toast Old England here, on the hearth."

So, while the Count stood by the fire, and Paulina Mary still danced to
and fro--happy in the liberty of the wide hall-like kitchen--Mrs.
Bretton herself instructed Martha to spice and heat the wassail-bowl,
and, pouring the draught into a Bretton flagon, it was served round,
reaming hot, by means of a small silver vessel, which I recognised as
Graham's christening-cup.

"Here's to Auld Lang Syne!" said the Count; holding the glancing cup on
high. Then, looking at Mrs. Bretton.--

"We twa ha' paidlet i' the burn
Fra morning sun till dine,
But seas between us braid ha' roared
Sin' auld lane syne.

"And surely ye'll be your pint-stoup,
And surely I'll be mine;
And we'll taste a cup o' kindness yet
For auld lang syne."

"Scotch! Scotch!" cried Paulina; "papa is talking Scotch; and Scotch he
is, partly. We are Home and de Bassompierre, Caledonian and Gallic."

"And is that a Scotch reel you are dancing, you Highland fairy?" asked
her father. "Mrs. Bretton, there will be a green ring growing up in the
middle of your kitchen shortly. I would not answer for her being quite
cannie: she is a strange little mortal."

"Tell Lucy to dance with me, papa; there is Lucy Snowe."

Mr. Home (there was still quite as much about him of plain Mr. Home as
of proud Count de