n the highest, and on earth peace, good-will toward men;" it
bends lower,--lower only. But in his soul-lit eyes there are warm
tears, and on his worn face a sad and solemn joy.

CHAPTER XI.

I am going to end my story now. There are phases more vivid in the
commonplace lives of these men and women, I do not doubt: love, as
poignant as pain in its joy; crime, weak and foul and foolish, like all
crime; silent self-sacrifices: but I leave them for you to paint; you
will find colours enough in your own house and heart.

As for Christmas-day, neither you nor I need try to do justice to that
theme: how the old school-master went about, bustling, his thin face
quite hot with enthusiasm, and muttering, "God bless my soul!"--hardly
recovered from the sudden delight of finding his old pupil waiting for
him when he went down in the morning; how he insisted on being led by
him, and nobody else, all day, and before half an hour had confided,
under solemn pledges of secrecy, the great project of the book about
Bertrand de Born; how even easy Mrs. Howth found her hospitable
Virginian blood in a glow at the unexpected breakfast-guest,--settling
into more confident pleasure as dinner came on, for which success was
surer; how cold it was, outside; how Joel piled on great fires, and
went off on some mysterious errand, having "other chores to do than
idling and duddering;" how the day rose into a climax of perfection at
dinner-time, to Mrs. Howth's mind,--the turkey being done to a
delicious brown, the plum-pudding quivering like luscious jelly (a
Christian dinner to-day, if we starve the rest of the year!). Even Dr.
Knowles, who brought a great bouquet out for the school-master, was in
an unwonted good-humour; and Mr. Holmes, of whom she stood a little in
dread, enjoyed it all with such zest, and was so attentive to them all,
but Margret. They hardly spoke to each other all day; it quite fretted
the old lady; indeed, she gave the girl a good scolding about it out in
the pantry, until she was ready to cry. She had looked that way all
day, however.

Knowles was hurt deep enough when he saw Holmes, and suspected the
worst, under all his good-humour. It was a bitter disappointment to
give up the girl; for, beside the great work, he loved her in an
uncouth fashion, and hated Holmes. He met her alone in the morning;
but when he saw how pale she grew, expecting his outbreak, and how she
glanced timidly in at the room where Stephen