hing up the dinner, and Marcus looks blue in the face with cold and
hunger." And at this reminder Olivia hurried.

Mrs. Broderick always gave them the same dinner, a roast fowl and a
piece of boiled ham, with plum pudding and mince pies to follow, but
Deborah's cookery always gave it a different and most delicious flavour.

When dinner was over they sat by the fire and roasted chestnuts, and
talked softly to each other, while Aunt Madge dozed. She roused up
when Deb brought in the tea-things, and chatted in her old bright way,
but Marcus's professional eyes detected lassitude, and in spite of her
entreaties took his wife away rather earlier than usual.

"Livy," observed Aunt Madge, as her niece stooped over her to kiss her,
"I have not been able to write a note of thanks to Mr. Gaythorne yet,
but will you tell him that I have not had such a Christmas gift as that
since my husband left me, and that I have been praying for him off and
on all day, that he may have his heart's desire--there, tell him
that----" And then she sank back wearily on her pillows.

CHAPTER IX.

THE CHRISTMAS GUEST.

"This life of ours is a wild Aeolian harp of many a joyous strain;
But under them all there runs a loud perpetual wail, as of souls in
pain."--_Longfellow_.

Olivia felt a little nervous as she sent in her name by Phoebe; the
girl had looked at her dubiously.

"I am not sure whether master will see you, ma'am," she said. "He
never sees anyone on Christmas Day; and Mrs. Crampton says he is but
poorly;" nevertheless, at Olivia's request, she had taken the message.

After a brief delay she returned. Her master would see Mrs. Luttrell;
but Olivia's heart beat a little quickly as she entered the library.
For the first time she was not sure of her welcome.

The grand old room looked unusually gloomy. The tall standard lamps
were unlighted, and only the blazing fire and a small green
reading-lamp made a spot of brightness. Deep shadows lurked in the
corners, and the heavy book-cases and window recesses only seemed to
add to the gloom.

Mr. Gaythorne sat in his great ebony chair--with its crimson cushions.
His face looked more cadaverous and sunken than usual; the fine
features looked as if they were carved in old ivory, they were so fixed
and rigid; as he held out his hand to Olivia there was no smile of
welcome on his face--the melancholy deep-set eyes were sombre and
piercing.

[Illustration: Mr. Gayth