rn before the first day of '82 shall have
come to an end. It is very nearly at an end now; the shadows have fallen
long ago; the night wind has arisen; the snow that all day long has been
falling slowly and steadily, still falls, as if quite determined never
again to leave off.

They are all sitting in the library, it being considered a snugger room
on such a dreary evening that the grander drawing-room. Stephen Gower,
who has just come in, is standing by the centre-table with his back to
it, and is telling them some little morsel of scandal about a near
neighbor. It is a bare crumb, yet it is received with avidity and
gratitude, and much laughter, so devoid of interest have been all the
other hours of the day.

Nobody quite understands how it now is with Dulce and Stephen. That they
have patched up their late quarrel is apparent to everybody, and as far
as an ordinary eye can see, they are on as good terms with each other as
usual.

Just now she is laughing even more merrily than the rest at his little
story, when the door opens, and Sir Christopher and Fabian enter
together.

Sir Christopher is plainly very angry, and is declaring in an extremely
audible voice that "he will submit to it no longer;" he furthermore
announces that he has "seen too much of it," whatever "_it_" may be, and
that for the future he "will turn over a very different leaf." I wonder
how many times in the year this latter declaration is made by everybody?

Fabian, who is utterly unmoved by his vehemence, laying his hand upon
his uncle's shoulder, leads him up to the fireplace and into the huge
arm-chair, that is his perpetual abiding-place.

"What is it?" asks Sir Mark, looking up quickly.

"Same old story," says Fabian, in a low voice, with a slight shrug of
his shoulders. "Slyme. Drink. Accounts anyhow. And tipsy insolence,
instead of proper explanation." As Fabian finishes, he draws his breath
hastily, as though heartily sick and tired of the whole business.

Now that he is standing within the glare of the fire, one can see how
altered he is of late. His cheeks are sunken, his lips pale. There is,
too, a want of energy about him, a languor, a listlessness, that seems
to have grown upon him with strange rapidity, and which suggests the
possibility that life has become rather a burden than a favor.

If I say he looks as dead tired as a man might look who has been for
many hours engaged in a labor trying both to soul and body, you will,