l he could show his
companion what they contained; it was a copy of "Aurora Leigh,"
bound in white vellum, and on the cover were stamped two tiny
violets,-green-stemmed and purple-blossomed.

"'Aurora Leigh,'" said Lionel--not daring, however, to take the dainty
volume in his hands. "That will just suit Miss Savonarola. And what are
the two violets, Maurice--what do they mean?"

"Oh, that was merely a little device of my own," Mangan said, evasively.

"You don't mean to say that these are your handiwork?" Lionel asked,
looking a little closer.

"Ob, no. I merely drew them, and the binder had them stamped in color
for me."

"And what did that cost?"

"I don't know yet."

"And don't care--so long as it's for Francie. And yet you are always
lecturing me on my extravagance!"

"Oh, well, it's Christmas-time," Mangan said; "and I confess I like
Christmas and all its ways. I do. I seem to feel the general excitement
throughout the country tingling in me too; I like to see the children
eagerly delighted, and the houses decorated with evergreens, and the old
folk pleased and happy with the enthusiasm of the youngsters. If I've
got to drink an extra glass of port, I'm there; if it's Sir Roger de
Coverley, I'm there; I'll do anything to add to the general
_Schwaermerei_. What the modern _litterateur_ thinks it fine to write
about Christmas being all sham sentiment is simply insufferable bosh.
Christmas isn't in the least bit played out--though the magazinist may
be, or may pretend to be. I think it's a grand thing to have a season
for sending good wishes, for recollection of absent friends, for letting
the young folk kick up their heels. I say, Linn, I hope there's going to
be some sunlight down there. I am longing to see a holly-tree in the
open air--the green leaves and scarlet berries glittering in the
sunlight. Oh, I can tell you an autumn session of Parliament is a
sickening thing--when the interminable speeches and wranglings drag on
and on until you think they're going to tumble over into Christmas-day
itself. There's fog in your brain as well as in your throat, and you
seem to forget there ever was an outer world; you get listless and
resigned, and think you've lived all your life in darkness. Well, just a
glimmer of sunshine, that's all I bargain for--just a faint glimmer--and
a sight of the two holly-trees by the gate of the doctor's house."

What intoxication had got into the head of this man? Whither had fle