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'Oh, no. I quite understand the character, not a very uncommon

one.'

'Possibly. But I do sometimes wish there were some subjects upon which we could agree, where I could take his advice on plans for the future, in which of course he must be so much interested. But it is not possible, and I sadly feel that there will be changes.'

'Perhaps the change will be in himself,' observed Mr. Gordon. 'Remember that such things have been.'

'And so may it be in this case,' returned the Earl, with great earnestness. But the Countess here re-entering, the conversation changed; and shortly afterwards the Rector took his leave.

(To be continued.)

THE CHRISTMAS GUEST.

BY THE AUTHOR OF THE LANDGRAVINE'S CROSS.'

'LITTLE ANGELA, run to the window, and see if there are any footprints on the snow this Christmas morning,' said the good pastor, as he watched his wife and his eldest daughter preparing with the most scrupulous nicety to lay the long deal table with the spotless home-spun linen, which, alas! bore the marks of many a rent and tear, darned over again and again by the deft fingers which were so long and white, and looked as if they might well have graced a far different task.

The pastor and his wife had married young, and settled down here in the forest, surrounded by unbroken solitude, and two or three miles from the village whose little church the pastor was appointed to serve. They were very happy contented people, and one little head after another began to make its appearance in the family without causing any serious uneasiness; there was still enough meal in the chest, and there were a great many good blankets in the store-closet, and if one child did outgrow its clothes rather quickly, they came in very conveniently for the next.

So when Christmas Day came, they had good store of mince-pies, not to mention the turkey and sausages which came in the hamper the children's rich Aunt Theresa invariably sent to the parsonage on Christmas Eve. Accordingly when on their way home from church they fell in with a stranger who had been one of the most attentive of all the congregation, and the pastor asked him if he would not step in and partake of his Christmas fare; no one made the least objection, and the guest was made welcome to the warmest corner by the fire-side, and the largest slice off the turkey's breast.

Much pleased was he at the cordial hospitality with which he was received; and his heart opened so, that the pastor and his wife were quite delighted with their new acquaintance, while he assured them that he was

at that time homeless, and that had it not been for their kindness, he should have looked in vain for a Christmas dinner. At day-break the next morning he left them, promising in answer to their repeated solicitations, that he would come back again if he could.

Then the good wife put away the best china, which had been taken out for the charming stranger, and she said that no one should use it until the next Christmas came round; and when that arrived, the softest bed was spread with the finest sheets in the very best chamber, and the table was laid with an extra cup and plate, and the rich aunt's choicest delicacies were set down, in the hope that he might once more claim their hospitality. But he did not come.

Then the good pastor said, 'Still let the vacant seat at our board be filled. Look out, my children, and see if anyone is passing this way; if so, open the door and bid him welcome.'

So the children went to the window, but they saw no one. They sat down and cut the turkey, but the daintiest morsels were still put upon the plate which there was no one to empty.

The good pastor said, 'Come, this will never do; we are thinking more of the absent whom all our care cannot profit, than of those who are present with us and around us, seeking our sympathy;' and when they had all finished, and grace was said, he bade his two eldest children run with the plate of good things to the charcoal-burner's blind mother, who lived farther in the heart of the forest.

After this, Christmas never came that the pastor's family did not look about them to think what houseless and homeless wanderer they could invite to share their cheer; but few strangers came that way, and these were always in a hurry, and could not stay, or else they had made arrangements to dine elsewhere; but still the extra cup and plate, and the empty chair, were set at the pastor's board, and still the good wife heaved a sigh as she looked around her at the row of fresh and smiling faces, for her heart could have made room for yet one other guest; and still the pastor said,

'Little Angela, look out of the window, and see if there are any footprints on the snow.'

But the times grew harder; the little family increased mightily, but so did not the provision for them. The girls grew up beautiful and good; they were simple-minded, and had been also brought up to be industrious. There was no servant kept at the parsonage, for they could never have afforded her wages, so everything was done at home. A great deal was accomplished where there were so many pairs of willing hands to work. Yet the pastor grew poorer and poorer, and more and more sad, when he saw that his poverty was telling on the prospects of his lovely and pious daughters, for none of the village youths ever thought of straying into the forest for a wife; while Bertha, the rich miller's eldest child, who was flighty and ill-favoured, had enough lovers to have supplied every one of the pastor's daughters with husbands, and all because it was said that her

father had promised to give her three hundred pounds on the day of her marriage, and her old grandmother had been heard to say, that if Bertha made a sensible choice, she did not know that she might not be prevailed upon to make a present to the girl of a real set of sables which would keep her warm the whole winter through.

When the pastor's wife heard this, she called her eldest-born Theresa to her, and putting on her marriage finger the pearl ring which had been given her at her own wedding, she said, sighing,

'Here, my child, is the only betrothal ring that will ever be given to thee; but keep a good heart, and if anyone asks thee the lover's name who put it there, tell them 'tis thy mother has married thee to an honest and virtuous life, with the warmest blessing that ever a mother gave to a dutiful child!'

Of course the maiden laughed and blushed, and said she did not want a lover, that she had never seen a single young man in all the village that she could fancy. In good sooth she had something else to think of; and she ran off to milk the cow, and give the chickens their barley porridge.

It was now fourteen years since the Christmas Guest had crossed their threshold, and Christmas Eve dawned upon a cold hearth and an empty meal chest. Thirteen blooming children clustered around the pastor and his care-worn looking wife. They were speaking cheerfully of the better times they hoped would come for them with the new year, and how the eldest son, Francis, was now just turned twelve, and might perhaps be successful in procuring a situation, and so earning his own livelihood before long. And wasn't it lucky the good Aunt Theresa never neglected to send them a hamper of delicacies on Christmas Eve? otherwise there would be nothing but bread and cheese to set before the Christmas Guest, if he should come on the morrow.' And the younger ones laughed a little, for the guest who was always waited for, and never came, had become somewhat of a jest with those who had never seen him, and they did not dream what a serious matter it was to Theresa, who, though only a little child at the time of his appearance among them, had never forgotten the stranger's frank manners and bright sunny smile.

By-and-by the charcoal-burner came with a great load of peats, which he begged them to accept, in memory of his old dead mother, to whom they had been so kind; and the pastor accepted the simple gift with frank readiness, saying,

'These are indeed welcome, neighbour, for our fire-wood was all used out, and the children were cold. In truth, this winter has been most unusually severe.-Angela, my dear wife, is there not a drop of wine left, that our friend may drink to a merry Christmas?'

But the charcoal-burner disappeared in a great hurry to escape thanks, just as the pastor's wife had made up her mind to chide her husband most severely for his thoughtlessness in supposing that there could be any wine in the house, when she had seen none for a twelvemonth!

Very late that night, later indeed than had ever happened before, the anxiously-expected hamper arrived from the good aunt. All the money they had in the house went to pay for the carriage, and as soon as the porter was gone, the pastor, his wife, and the thirteen children, clustered around, their faces full of eager and joyous expectation. It was a large hamper, but it was also very light.

At length the cover was removed, and there appeared the usual layer of straw. According to the household custom, they then drew lots, which should first plunge a hand into the packing, for whatever was then brought up became the property of that person. The rest was considered to belong to the family.

The lot fell upon Theresa; she dived into the straw and felt about it in every direction, expecting to meet with many and various obstacles, in the shape of the customary fat turkey or monster jar of mincemeat, but nothing of the kind did she bring up.

'What, not even a box of sugar-plums? you are a bad caterer, Theresa; try again,' said the pastor; and Theresa did try, but she only brought up straw.

'This is some trick,' said the mother; and she looked at the label to see if it were in Aunt Theresa's handwriting, and so it was sure enough. Then all the hands were thrown at once into the straw, and it was pulled out and strewed on the floor, and they came to the bottom, and foundnothing-except a piece of paper enumerating in Aunt Theresa's businesslike way, the various articles that there could be no doubt had been put in before the hamper left her house. The list stood thus: "Turkey and sausages, Christmas pie, jar of mincemeat, sauer-kraut, three jars of preserved plums, raisins and brandy for the children's snap-dragon, a frosted cake, a bottle of wine, gingerbread, a warm shawl for the mother, a muff for Theresa, and a Christmas-tree covered all over with oranges and bon-bons for the little ones.'

It was plain that the hamper had been rifled on its way.

Who shall describe the lamentations of the whole party as they realized their loss? The pastor was the first to calm his feelings of indignation and disappointment, and to counsel his wife and children to do the same. 'It is worse for the poor man who has helped himself at our expense,' said he, 'for it is better to suffer wrong than to inflict it.'

'It is, however, a great pity that we have no Christmas dinner,' said his wife.

'Have we then nothing in the house?'

'A loaf of bread and a little cheese; but you cannot call that a Christmas dinner. Bertha at the mill is to have a haunch of venison, and a goose with sage, besides a pork-pie; but then they have invited six young men to dine with them. Their Will asked our Francis if he could not contrive to drop in at their dinner hour to-morrow, but I will not have it said that my children will go anywhere for a meal, so I have told him that he is to do no such thing.'

The good pastor sighed a little; his wife grew proud in proportion to her poverty. Yet in this decision (if the spirit in which it was made had but been different) she might in the main be right.

'It is thankless to say that good bread and cheese is not a dinner,' he said gently; and having removed the empty hamper with his own hands, he summoned them all to evening prayers, and then bade them go at once to bed, that they might be up early for the festival of the morrow.

'Must we go to bed supperless, Father?' asked Francis, a thin growing boy with an enormous appetite.

'My son, holy men of old fasted ever on the eve of a festival. Cannot we fast one night at His call Who for our sakes fasted forty?'

Francis, much abashed, retreated from the room, and crept into bed beside his brothers; but being too hungry to sleep, he thought of trying the efficacy of prayer, of which he had heard his father speak much in a late discourse. He said, ‘Give us this day our daily bread,' a great many times over, and then much comforted he fell into an uneasy slumber, dreaming, as hungry people too frequently do, of nothing but eating and drinking, poor little boy.

Awakening with a start, he heard a gentle foot-fall, and the soft rustle of a woman's dress in the chamber. The moonlight shining full through the forest trees, which nodded and waved their long branches against the unblinded casement, lit up Theresa's face, as with slow quiet movements she busied herself in laying beside each of the four little beds the clean white collars and handkerchiefs her own hands had starched for the four young brothers who could do so little as yet to repay her anxious love. Francis watched his sister in silence, and a new light broke upon him as he fancied that her lovely face wore a subdued expression that made her more than ever like the painted angels in the church window, while her soft dark eyes were downcast, and the white hands shrank from their contact with the clean linen, as if it felt cold to the touch.

He waited until it was his turn to be visited, and then he said ‘Theresa,' but the name died away in a sob.

She spoke cheerfully, but low, fearing to arouse the sleepers. 'What, awake, Francis?'

‘Why should not I watch as well as you, Theresa?'

‘Because you are little and weakly. Come, Francis, you must not sob in this way;' then bending low, and putting her arms around him, she whispered, 'Are you hungry, darling?' in a gentle pleading tone, as if she were trying to make the humiliating confession easy to him, by meeting it half way.

Francis had often refrained from saying he was hungry, when a clear statement of the truth might have obtained him some extra indulgence; but now that there was nothing to be gained by the acknowledgement, he did not think it worth while to keep it in. Yes; but it is not only that.' ‘You are sorry that you may not go to the miller's to-morrow; but indeed I think our mother is right, because she always is, and because

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