r the infliction with some degree of philosophy.

This jacket was not, however, Constance's only trouble. Her conscience
was already uneasy at the impossibility of getting to evensong on
Christmas Day. She had been to an early Celebration without asking any
questions, and had got back before Herbert had come down to breakfast,
and very glad she was that she had done so, for she found that her mother
regarded it as profane 'to take the Sacrament' when she was going to have
a party in the evening, and when Constance was in the midst of the party
she felt that--if it were to be--her mother might be right.

It was a dinner first--at which Constance did not appear--chiefly of
older people, who talked of shipping and of coals. Afterwards, if they
noticed the young people, joked them about their imaginary lovers--beaux,
as the older ladies called them; young men, as the younger ones said.
One, the most plain spoken of all, asked Herbert how he felt, at which
the boy wriggled and laughed sheepishly, and his mother had a great
confabulation with various of the ladies, who were probably condoling
with her.

Later, there were cards for the elders, and sundry more young people came
in for a dance. The Rollstones were considered as beneath the dignity of
the Mortons, but Herbert had loudly insisted on inviting Rose for the
evening and had had his way, but after all she would not come. Herbert
felt himself aggrieved, and said she was as horrid a little prig as
Constance, who on her side felt a pang of envy as she thought of Rose
going to church and singing hymns and carols to her father and mother,
while she, after a struggle under the mistletoe, which made her hot and
miserable, had to sit playing waltzes. One good-natured lady offered to
relieve her, but she was too much afraid of the hero of the mistletoe to
stir from her post, and the daughter of her kindly friend had no scruple
in exclaiming--

'Oh no, ma, don't! You always put us out, you know, and Constance Morton
is as true as old Time.'

'I am sure Constance is only too happy to oblige her friends,' said Mrs.
Morton. 'And she is not out yet,' she added, as a tribute to high life.

If Constance at times felt unkindly neglected, at others she heard surges
of giggling, and suppressed shrieking and protests that made her feel the
piano an ark of refuge.

The parting speech from a good-natured old merchant captain was, 'Why,
you demure little pussy cat, you are the