o rouse his
jealousy, assuring him that that same evening she had refused Cos's
proposals, and beseeching him to forgive her and come back to her. That
letter Vivian had never had (six months from that time, by the way, it
turned up, after a journey to India and Melbourne, following a cousin of
his, colonel of a line regiment, she in her haste having omitted to put
his troop on the address), and Cecil, whose feeling was too deep to let
her mention the subject to Blanche or Helena, made up her mind that he
would never forgive her, and being an impressionable young lady, had, on
the anniversary of Christmas-eve, been comparing her fate with that of
Muriel in the ghost legend, and, on seeing the Colonel's unexpected
apparition, had fainted straight away in the over-excitement and sudden
joy of the moment.

Such was Cecil's story, and Vivian was content with it and gladly took
occasion to practise the Christmas duties of peace, and love, and
pardon. He had the best anodyne for his wounds now, and there was no
danger for him, since Cecil had taken the place of the Scutari nurses.
No "Crimean heroes," as they call us in the papers, were ever more feted
and petted than were the Colonel and I.

Christmas morning dawned, the sun shining bright on the snow-covered
trees, and the Christmas bells chiming merrily; and as we stood on the
terrace to see the whole village trooping up through the avenue to
receive the gifts left to them by some old Vivian long gone to his rest
with his forefathers under the churchyard cedars, Syd looked down with a
smile into Cecil's eyes as she hung on his arm, and whispered,

"I will double those alms, love, in memory of the priceless gift this
Christmas has given me. Ah! Thornton and I little knew, when we came
down for the hunting, how fast you and Blanche would capture us with
your--HOLLY WREATHS AND ROSE CHAINS."

SILVER CHIMES AND GOLDEN FETTERS.

SILVER CHIMES AND GOLDEN FETTERS.

I.

WALDEMAR FALKENSTEIN AND VALERIE L'ESTRANGE.

"A quarter to twelve! By Heaven if my luck don't change before the year
is out, I vow I'll never touch a card in the next!" exclaimed one of
several men playing lansquenet in Harry Godolphin's rooms at
Knightsbridge.

There were seven or eight of them, some with long rent-rolls, others
within an ace of the Queen's Bench; the poor devils losing in the long
run much oftener and more recklessly than the rich fellows; all of them
playing high