ois brought her Bible and read to Mrs. Armadale, who by this
time was in her chair by the fireside, and busy with her knitting. The
knitting was laid down then, however; and Mrs. Armadale loved to take
the book in her hands, upon her lap, while her granddaughter, leaning
over it, read to her. They two had it alone; no other meddled with
them. Charity was always in the kitchen at this time, and Madge often
in her dairy, and neither of them inclined to share in the service
which Lois always loved dearly to render. They two, the old and the
young, would sit wholly engrossed with their reading and their talk,
unconscious of what was going on around them; even while Charity and
Madge were bustling in and out with the preparations for breakfast.
Nothing of the bustle reached Mrs. Armadale or Lois, whose faces at
such times had a high and sweet and withdrawn look, very lovely to
behold. The hard features and wrinkled lines of the one face made more
noticeable the soft bloom and delicate moulding of the other, while the
contrast enhanced the evident oneness of spirit and interest which
filled them both. When they were called to breakfast and moved to the
table, then there was a difference. Both, indeed, showed a subdued
sweet gravity; but Mrs. Armadale was wont also to be very silent and
withdrawn into herself, or busied with inner communings; while Lois was
ready with speech or action for everybody's occasions, and full of
gentle ministry. Mrs. Barclay used to study them both, and be
wonderingly busy with the contemplation.

CHAPTER XXIII.

A BREAKFAST TABLE.

It was Christmas eve. Lois had done her morning work by the lamplight,
and was putting the dining-room, or sitting-room rather, in order; when
Madge joined her and began to help.

"Is the other room ready?"

"All ready," said Lois.

"Are you doing that elm tree?"

"Yes."

"How do you get along?"

"I cannot manage it yet, to my satisfaction; but I will. O Madge, isn't
it too delicious?"

"What? the drawing? Isn't it!!"

"I don't mean the drawing only. Everything. I am getting hold of
French, and it's delightful. But the books! O Madge, the books! I feel
as if I had been a chicken in his shell until now, and as if I were
just getting my eyes open to see what the world is like."

"What _is_ it like?" asked Madge, laughing. "My eyes are shut yet, I
suppose, for _I_ haven't found out. You can tell me."

"Eyes that are open cannot help eyes that a