stmas morning, that we would take our breakfast with him
in his room.

To this, as you may imagine, I readily assented. Our breakfast party
passed off with much content, and even with some quiet humour, John
sitting in his easy-chair at the head of the table and wishing us the
compliments of the season. I found laid in my place a letter from Mrs.
Temple greeting us all (for she knew Mr. Gaskell was at Worth), and
saying that she hoped to bring little Edward to us at the New Year.
My brother seemed much pleased at the prospect of seeing his son, and
though perhaps it was only imagination, I fancied he was particularly
gratified that Mrs. Temple herself was to pay us a visit. She had not
been to Worth since the death of Lady Maltravers.

Before we had finished breakfast the sun beat on the panes with an
unusual strength and brightness. His rays cheered us all, and it was so
warm that John first opened the windows, and then wheeled his chair on
to the walk outside. Mr. Gaskell brought him a hat and mufflers, and we
sat with him on the terrace basking in the sun. The sea was still and
glassy as a mirror, and the Channel lay stretched before us like a floor
of moving gold. A rose or two still hung against the house, and the
sun's rays reflected from the red sandstone gave us a December morning
more mild and genial than many June days that I have known in the north.
We sat for some minutes without speaking, immersed in our own
reflections and in the exquisite beauty of the scene.

The stillness was broken by the bells of the parish church ringing for
the morning service. There were two of them, and their sound, familiar
to us from childhood, seemed like the voices of old friends. John looked
at me and said with a sigh, "I should like to go to church. It is long
since I was there. You and I have always been on Christmas mornings,
Sophy, and Constance would have wished it had she been with us."

His words, so unexpected and tender, filled my eyes with tears; not
tears of grief, but of deep thankfulness to see my loved one turning
once more to the old ways. It was the first time I had heard him speak
of Constance, and that sweet name, with the infinite pathos of her
death, and of the spectacle of my brother's weakness, so overcame me
that I could not speak. I only pressed his hand and nodded. Mr. Gaskell,
who had turned away for a minute, said he thought John would take no
harm in attending the morning service provided the ch