company.

Bryda studiously avoided bestowing a single raisin on Mr Bayfield, and
fed her grandfather with the hot morsels, and tossed one now and then to
Jack Henderson.

Then there came the final scene, when most of the plums were secured,
and Dorothy sprinkled the dish with salt. The ghastly light that
flickered on the hot faces round the table was a part of the amusement.

The last flicker had died out, and the wide kitchen was nearly in
darkness, for the fire had burnt low, when Bryda felt her hand seized
and pressed to Mr Bayfield's lips.

'Remember Easter,' he said.

His words smote her with sudden fear. She snatched her hand away, and
exclaimed,--

'Bring back the candles, Betty, and we will mix the punch.'

Again the low voice said, in tones which were almost a whisper,--

'Unless your promise is kept, this will be the last Christmas here for
yonder old man.'

'I made no promise, sir,' was the reply; 'the promise was yours.'

'Come, sir, come,' the old farmer said, 'draw closer to the hearth, and
let us drink to your health. Yon old punch bowl,' he said, with a sigh,
'belonged to my father, and his father before him. I would not care to
part with it, nor of nothing they called their own.'

'Part!' Mr Bayfield exclaimed; 'no, by George! why should you. We won't
talk of parting to-night, though you know, sir, the most precious things
you possess will have to be parted with sooner or later.'

'Ah, that's true; we can't carry aught out of the world with us, and we
brought nothing into it. But let's fill the mugs to the brim and drink
to the Squire's health, for I don't forget you have treated me
handsomely, sir, in giving me breathing time. So here's to your health
and happiness.'

Dorothy Burrows had thrown on more logs, and the genial blaze shone on
the dark leaves of the evergreens and the scarlet holly berries, and
brought out the dull white beads of the great mistletoe bough which hung
suspended from the thick oaken beam of the kitchen.

The firelight made a bright light round Bryda's fair head, on which the
masses of her hair were gathered and surmounted by a dainty top-knot of
blue ribbon. Jack's eyes fed on her with a hungry longing to possess
her. He saw visions of future Christmastides, when he should be a
prosperous silversmith and live in one of the houses in the College
Green, as his uncle did, with Bryda its mistress, with all she liked
best about her--plenty of books, and music, and e