do; for almost all of them are employed by the owner of the manor-house.

The manor-house itself is one in which the first impression you get on entering, and the last which remains with you after you leave, will most likely be that here, if anywhere in the world, there is no lack of anything.

There is no lack of room. The house is a great, oldfashioned, rambling brick and flint building, with more rooms than anybody can possibly want who is ever likely to live there, and not the sort of little useless rooms which one often sees in country houses, but good, large twentyfoot-by-fifteen places, where a dozen children might romp on a wet day. The outhouses, which have been built up by successive generations of wealthy tillers of the soil, each of whom has had some special fancy in the matter of stables, brew-houses, granaries, or barns, are various, solid, and quaint. They surround a yard which covers half an acre of ground, paved with flint round two of the sides to a breadth of some twelve feet, but otherwise soft-bottomed and full of straw, in which fat heifers stand over their hocks, and munch out of the racks which are set up at several points and constantly replenished, and saucy calves disport themselves, and bully the younger generations of smalllimbed, fat-sided black pigs, their fellow-occupants. There is animal life of all kinds, representatives of every species of domestic beast or fowl which can be used either for profit or pleasure. There is no lack of dead stock, dozens of hay-ricks and corn-stacks, thatched mounds full of mangoldwurzel and turnips and potatoes, besides well-stored barns and granaries; a dozen ploughs, eight or ten wagons, carts, a light carriage or two, and a steam-engine.

And, lastly, there is no lack of human stock to crown the whole; jolter-headed plough-boys and carter-boys, and farmservants and house-servants, and "the family," with whom we are chiefly concerned. The head of these, and feudal

king and lord paramount of the little hamlet of Avenly, is Farmer John Kendrick, as he would call himself,- Squire Kendrick, as the peasantry all around call him. He is the fourth or fifth in descent of his family, who have owned a considerable tract of land in the dip of the downs in which Avenly lies; and, besides his own land, he farms a great tract of the downs on lease. In fact, he pays more than four fifths of the tithes and rates of the parish himself, and employs all but some dozen or so of the whole male population. He is, at the time of our story, a hale man of about forty-three, a good sportsman, and an energetic and successful farmer, reasonably well educated, and open-minded, of good plain manners, without much polish. He has no near neighbors, except his parson, and no spare time to go far a-field for society; so that he sees little of it. A just and a kind man, but hot-tempered and somewhat arbitrary, from having had his own way since he was a boy of nineteen, when his father died. He married early the daughter of a clergyman's widow, a lady of education and refinement, whom, nevertheless, he had managed to make very happy, and who had borne him a large family.

On the morning of the Christmas Eve with which we are concerned, Mrs. Kendrick is making tea in the south parlor of the manor, at a long table, while her eldest daughter Mabel, a girl of eighteen, is cutting large plates of breadand-butter, and filling mugs with new milk for the younger branches. Presently the bell rings for prayers, and the governess with her convoy arrive at one door, while two schoolboys of fifteen and fourteen, and a small boy of nine proud of having been out with his big brothers — come in with rosy cheeks from the hall.

"You can call the servants in, Willie," said Mrs. Kendrick to the eldest boy, as soon as she had returned all their salutes; "we are not to wait for papa."

After prayers, the serious business of breakfast began, amidst a Babel of talk from the boys.

"Haven't we had a jolly morning, mamma? Parker's pond is frozen over splendidly, and we've been sliding ever since it was light."

"And I can do butter-and-eggs all down the long slide, which the carter-boys have made, can't I, Willie ?" (The feat of butter-and-eggs, be it known to those readers who are not up to the higher mysteries of sliding, consists in going down the slide on one foot, and beating with the heel and toe of the other at short intervals.)

"Yes, and Bobby is getting on famously, and goes at the slide like a little dragon," said Willie. Bobby, the small boy of nine, looked up proudly at his mother, with his mouth too full of bread-and-butter to be able to take his own part by speech at the moment.

"Bobby has n't learnt a word of his lessons though," said a staid little girl of twelve, looking up from her milk; "and Miss Smith says he'll have to stay in after breakfast to do them."

"That's just like you now, Clara," retorted Dick, the butter-and-eggs boy; "why can't you mind your own lessons, and let Bobby alone?"

"But, Bobby, how did you get out so early?" asked Mrs. Kendrick.

"O, Willie came in and told me I might get up and come with them."

"Yes, mamma, and I'm sure it will do him good to be out with us, instead of being with the girls. He need n't do lessons, need he, just at Christmas time?"

"Well, dear, Bobby shall have a holiday, and may go with you. But you must take care of him, for he 's only a little fellow, remember."

“O,

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yes, that we will."

May n't I have some cold beef, mamma?" broke in Dick, and, permission being given, he and Willie helped themselves at the sideboard, and kept the conversation alive

with accounts of the game of hockey they were going to have with the carter-boys, who were to break off work at twelve, and the rat-catching which was to come off in the big barn in the afternoon.

"And to-night is Ashen Fagot night, is n't it, mamma? and you 'll let us all go, and you and papa will come? You did n't go in last year; and I heard Joe, the head carter, say it was n't like Ashen Fagot if master and mistress did n't come in."

A shade passed over Mrs. Kendrick's face, but she said quietly, "Perhaps your papa will look in, dear; and, at any rate, you can all go for an hour or two."

"And O, mamma, shall we see the mummers?" asked a little bright-eyed girl of eight.

"Most likely, Maggy. "But where 's papa?

fast?"

They are sure to come, I think.”

Why does n't he come to break

"He has ridden out. He will come down and see you sliding after breakfast, I'm sure."

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Do you think I might take his skates? Dick wants to begin, and I could lend him mine if I may have papa's." "Yes, certainly, dear. I'm sure papa would wish have them."

you to

"But, Willie," interrupted Dick, "there's that pair of smaller ones, hanging up by papa's; they would fit you better, you know. What's the matter? Why do you

kick me under the table?"

Willie answered by a frown at his brother, and then glanced up hastily at his mother, who had bent down over her teacup. Mabel, who had been watching her mother since the mention of the Ashen Fagot, got up quickly, saying,

"O, there's papa; I'm sure I heard his horse. Let us go and bring him in.”

The breakfast circle broke up at once.

Willie lingered,

looking at his mother, who looked up presently, and said,

"You can take papa's skates, dear; but you must n't have the other pair."

"Of course, dear mother, I know," he said, going up to her fondly. And she kissed him, and he pressed her hand, and then went off after his brothers. Mabel came back with her father, and took out some embroidery-work, and sat by him, while Mrs. Kendrick poured out his tea. Each of them made some efforts to talk, but they were failures, and John Kendrick finished his breakfast in silence. When he had done, he got up and walked to one of the windows and looked out, and his wife came and put her hand on his shoulder. He took her other hand in his, and said,

"It was selfish of me to leave you this morning, dear, but I could n't have borne the children's merry prattle so early. I shall be better before dinner-time. What are the boys doing?"

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They have gone down to the pond, dear, full of all their plans. They are very happy. Shall we dine alone, -just you, I, and Mabel?”

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No, no! I must face it. It's only just to-day. One must make home cheerful to them in their holidays."

"Indeed, dear John, they are very happy; are not they, Mabel?"

"Yes, really, papa; and Willie is so thoughtful and nice." "He's a fine character, thank God," said Mr. Kendrick; and then, after a minute's pause, he went on: "Only to have written those three lines all this time. For myself, I should n't wonder, but the cruelty of such silence to you, to Mabel-”

"But, dearest John, remember they were written on board ship. He may never have had a chance of writing again."

"God knows, dearest. A cold heart, I fear."