osite his
chair. This portrait represented his daughter Cecilia at the age of
ten--a charming blonde head, skilfully treated by the artist, and the
large eyes were turned full upon him with a frank intelligence. Henry
Denvil was not of an imaginative temperament; his prime had been too
fully occupied for idle reveries; but now solitude was rendering him
sensitive to morbid influences. When he awoke he became vividly,
intensely conscious of the gaze of this picture fixed on himself. He
sat motionless, and studied it, instead of going out. Nine o'clock. A
tap at the door, and M. Jacques Robin stood on the threshold,
deferential in manner, wet as to garments, having awaited his guest
for an hour. Henry Denvil laughed loudly, almost roughly, seized his
hat, and sought the village tavern.

The play was reckless that night. The visitor was in the mood for high
stakes. Monsieur Robin lost and won without the quiver of an eyelash
or a change of hue in the dull opacity of his complexion. Henry Denvil
lost and won with the veins growing knotted and prominent in forehead
and temple, and his color deepening from red to crimson. Madame
Robin, cool and quiet, crocheted little threads of silk together into
a golden mesh with a sharp and slender needle, and from time to time
served the gentlemen with wine.

Eleven o'clock. Some person tapped Henry Denvil on the shoulder. He
glanced up impatiently, with bloodshot eyes. The landlord of the
tavern gave him a telegram, while the official who had brought it
waited at the door. He read:

"Come to us immediately. Cecilia has been run over. Tell me
what to do.--AUGUSTA DENVIL."

Then he was standing outside in the dark night, the rain, chill and
dreary as destiny, beating on his bare head, while the clouds rolled
low, and the river sent up its murmur from the valley below. His
little girl would be dead, he felt convinced, before he could reach
her.

III.

"The nest of the blind bird is made by God."--_Armenian
Proverb._

Christmas-day at Rome, as cold and crisp as any Northern festival,
with a piercing Tramontane wind sweeping across the piazza, the Alban
Hills snow-crested, as if cut in alabaster, and the fountains fringed
with icicles.

A gay and brilliant Christmas for a holiday world, with roses blooming
still in sheltered nooks; a devout Christmas for those prepared to
read its beautiful meaning in ancient churches, each of which