Lottie's radiant face at supper, in contrast with her clouded one at dinner, again puzzled certain members of the household; and De Forrest, to his disgust, learned that while he slept she had again been with Hemstead. He resolved on sleepless vigilance till the prize was secured, and mentally cursed the ill-starred visit to the country over and over again.

Bel was cool and cynical outwardly, but was really perplexed as to what ought to be done. With all her faults she had a sincere affection for her friend, and was shrewd enough to perceive that this affair with Hemstead promised to be more serious than Lottie's passing penchants had been previously. But with her usual weakness and irresolution she hesitated and waited, Micawber-like, to see what would "turn up."

The impression grew on Mrs. Marchmont that Lottie was fascinating her nephew; and yet just how to interfere she did not see. It was rather delicate business to speak, with nothing more tangible than what she had yet seen. That Lottie herself was becoming sincerely attached to a young man of Frank's calling and prospects, could not occur to a lady of Mrs. Marchmont's ideas of propriety and the fitness of things. It was only Lottie's "inveterate disposition to flirt." As to Lottie's "moods and emotions," she smiled at them with cool indifference, as far as she noticed them at all. "Young people pass through such phases as through the measles," she was accustomed to say.

Addie was too much wrapped up in herself to think particularly about others.

Save by queer little chuckling laughs, which no one understood, Mr.
Dimmerly gave no sign that he noted any thing unusual going on.

Besides, Lottie was very circumspect when in the presence of others, and Hemstead unconsciously followed the suggestion of her manner. Thus even lynx-eyed Bel could seldom lay her finger on any thing and say, "Here is something conclusive."

But if ever there was an earthly elysium, Hemstead and Lottie dwelt in it during the remainder of that week. Not that they were much together, or had much to say to each other by word of mouth. Scarcely another opportunity occurred for one of their momentous private talks, for De Forrest's vigilance had become sleepless indeed.

Besides, Hemstead was shut up in his room most of the time, engaged on another sermon. For Dr. Beams was ill, and the student had been asked to preach again. He gladly complied with the request, for he was most anxious to correct the dreary impression he had made on the previous Sabbath. Lottie, too, was much in her room, at work on something which no one was permitted to see. But little was thought of this, for the house was full of the mystery that always prevails just before Christmas. Every one was cherishing innocent, and often transparent, little secrets, which were soon to be proclaimed, if not on the "house-top," on the tree-top of the fragrant cedar that had already been selected and arranged in the back parlor, suggesting to all the blessedness of both giving and receiving.

Yet, while seemingly separated, what moment passed when they were not together? How vain was De Forrest's vigilance!—how futile were Mrs. Marchmont's precautions! Lottie was the muse that sat at Hemstead's side; and every time he lifted his eyes from the paper his vivid fancy saw her face glowing like the sunset, and beaming upon him. She inspired his sermon. Unconsciously, he wrote it for her alone, letting her need and spiritual state color the line of thought which his text naturally suggested; and a fresh, hope-imparting Christmas sermon it promised to be,—a veritable gospel. He was unconsciously learning the priceless advantage to a clergyman of pastoral visitation; for, in discovering and meeting the needs of one heart, nearly all are touched,—so near a kinship exists throughout humanity.

As Lottie stitched away at an odd bit of fancy-work—very different from any thing that had ever taxed her dainty skill before—strange gleams flitted across her face. At times her eyes would sparkle with mirth as she lived over scenes in which the student was ever the chief actor; and again she would grow pale, and her breath come quick and short, as her fancy portrayed him—when in the darkness he could not have been seen by human eyes—far out amid the ice upon the river. Then again her face would grow comically pitiful, as she murmured: "I could have brought him to quicker than uncle. I could have given him a stimulant more potent than the forty-year-old brandy of which uncle is so proud. I've found out my power over him."

Then her face would light up with exultation as she exclaimed, "O, it's grand to have such power over a strong, richly-endowed man,—to be able to move and play upon him at your will by some mystic influence too subtile for prying eyes to see. I can lift him into the skies by a smile. I can cast him into the depths by a frown. If I but touch his hand, the giant trembles. He would be a Hercules in my service, and yet I've got him just there"; and she depressed her little thumb with the confidence of a Roman empress desiring to show favor to some gladiatorial slave.

Then her face would change in quick and piquant transition to the expression of equally comic distress, as she sighed, "But, alas! where am I? Right under his big thumb, whether he knows it or not. How it all will end I dare not think."

When her jewelled watch indicated that the time for dinner or supper was near, she would make the most bewitching of toilets, and laugh at herself for doing so, querying, "What is the use of conquering one over and over again who is already helpless at your feet?"

And yet the admiration of Hemstead's beauty-loving eyes was sweeter incense than all the flattery she had ever received before.

And what hours of dainty, ethereal banqueting were those prosaic meals in Mrs. Marchmont's dining-room! The corpulent colored waiter served the others, but airy-winged love attended these two, bearing from one to the other glances, tones, accents, of the divinest flavor.

De Forrest noted and chafed over this subtile interchange. Bel and Mrs. Marchmont saw it also, and Mr. Dimmerly's queer chuckling laugh was heard with increasing frequency. But what could be done? Lottie's and Hemstead's actions were propriety itself. Mrs. Marchmont could not say, "You must not look at or speak to each other." As well seek to prevent two clouds in a summer sky from exchanging their lightnings!

Hemstead was in a maze. The past and the future had lost their existence to him, and he was living in the glorified present. He no more coolly realized the situation than would one in an ecstatic trance. In one sense he verified the popular superstition, and was bewitched; and, with the charming witch ever near to weave a new spell a dozen times a day, how could he disentangle himself? He was too innocent, too unhackneyed, to understand what was going on in his own heart.

The days and the hours fled away until Saturday—the day before
Christmas—came. By noon Hemstead had finished his sermon, and
Lottie had completed her mysterious fancy-work; and both were ready
for the festivities of Christmas eve.

Mr. Dimmerly was a great stickler for the old English customs, and always had the yule-log brought in with great ceremony. With his own hands he suspended the mistletoe from the chandelier in the hall, which he always obtained from Dimmerly Manor in England. Lottie, without thinking, stood beneath, watching him, when, with a spryness not in keeping with his years, he sprang down and gave her a sounding smack in honor of the ancient custom.

"There," said he, "that pays me for all my trouble and expense. But you will get another kiss here, that you will like better, before I take the mistletoe down."

"Well, uncle," said Lottie, laughing and rubbing her tingling cheek, "I hope it won't be such an explosion as yours was, or it will alarm the household."

"Be careful, or it may attract more attention than mine"; and he departed with his queer chuckling laugh.

Lottie looked after him with sudden intelligence, and asked herself,
"Now what does he mean by that? Does he suspect anything?"

At the dinner-table Mr. Dimmerly indulged in a long homily on the importance of keeping up old customs, and ended with a sly, significant glance at Lottie, which brought the color into her face. But during the afternoon she foiled all the devices of De Forrest to get her under the mistletoe bough, and yet with such grace that, however disappointed, he could not become angry. As for Hemstead, he was fat too diffident to attempt any such strategy, much as he would have liked to solemnize the venerable rite.

And so at last Christmas eve came; and with it a few guests. Harcourt and Miss Martell had been specially invited; for the fact of their engagement had become known at once, and Mrs. Marchmont hastened to assure them, by this invitation, that she had no regrets or resentment. Not for the world would she have Miss Martell imagine that any maternal projects had been frustrated.

Harcourt, grateful for all the kindness he had received at Mrs. Marchmont's, induced Alice to accept; and so their illumined faces were added to the circle that gathered around the yule-log in the large dining-room, that had been cleared for games and dancing.

In spite of the incongruous elements composing that circle, it made, with the crackling fire playing on happy faces and Christmas decorations, a pretty picture,—one that might convert a pagan into willingness to honor the chief Christian festival.

After some old-fashioned country dances—through which even Hemstead had been induced to blunder, to Lottie's infinite delight—they sat down to nuts, apples, and cider. Billets of hickory were piled higher than ever against the great yule-log; and never did the sacred flame light up fairer and happier faces than those of Alice Martell and Lottie Marsden. And yet they were as different as could be. One was the lily, and the other the rose. Harcourt and Hemstead also looked as if some angelic messenger had brought them "tidings of great joy."

Harcourt and Alice sat together; but Lottie, with seeming perverseness, got as far away as possible. But it was only seeming, for she sat where she could look Hemstead full in the face, and, with her brilliant eyes, indulge in love's mystic telegraphy without restraint.

Now was the time for Mr. Dimmerly to shine out; and he proposed that some one should begin a story, and carry it forward to a certain point, then stop abruptly, while some one else took it up for a brief time, when, in like manner, it would again be dropped that another might continue it, so that each one who was willing might have a chance to contribute.

"You commence, Mr. Harcourt," said Mr. Dimmerly.

After a preface of hemming, the young man said: "Once upon a time, in a village in the south of France, it was arranged that there should be a general fete and dance on the village green the afternoon before Christmas. Little Ninon was a peasant's daughter, and she was only fourteen. If she were petite, she was also piquant and pretty—"

"Very good, very good," cried a chorus of voices; and a round of applause stimulated the narrator.

"Until this occasion, Ninon had always been kept at home as a child; but, after interminable coaxings, she obtained her mother's permission to go to the fete. Now her mother was a widow, and it so happened that she could not go with her daughter, and after she had given her consent had not one whom she could send with her child as a protector. But Ninon was in such glee that her mother had not the heart to take back her promise.

"'Now, mother, tell me what shall I say when the boys, and perhaps some of the very young men, ask me to dance with them?'

"'Say, I'm only a little child who have come to see. Go thy ways.'

"'But suppose they don't go their ways,' pouted Ninon.

"'Go thine then, and come home.'

"'Now, mother dear, am I not almost old enough to have a lover?'

"'Lover indeed! Silly child, but yesterday I rocked thee in the cradle there. I'm a fool to let thee go.'

"Then Ninon, in fear, kept still, lest her mother should change her mind, a thing which women sometimes do, even in France—"

"Now I protest against innuendoes," cried Lottie. "It is the
Frenchman, as it is man all over the world, who changes his mind.
Adam first said he wouldn't eat the apple, and then he did!"

"Where's your authority for that?" said Harcourt.

"It's in the Bible," answered Lottie, stoutly; at which there was a great explosion.

"Miss Marsden equals modern commentators in amplifying the text," laughed Hemstead.

"Well," persisted Lottie, "if it isn't just so written, I know enough of human nature to be sure that that was just how it happened."

"On with the story!" cried Mr. Dimmerly. "Come, Miss Martell."

"The afternoon of the fete came," said Alice, "and Ninon's mother was depressed with a boding of evil.

"'Whom shall I send with thee, my child? My heart fails me in sending thee alone.'

"'Little brother Pierre shall go with me,' said Ninon. 'He's an odd child, and talks to the saints and angels more than to us. If he goes with me, the saints will take care of us both.'

"This seemed to strike the mother as true, and she was comforted; and the pale little boy, with large, spiritual eyes that appeared to look into the other world, took his sister's hand without even a smile flitting across his sad face; and they started for the fete.

"Now, Miss Marchmont," said Miss Martell, with a graceful inclination to Addie.

"And the pale little boy, with big, owl-like eyes," continued Addie, flippantly, "stalked along as if going to a funeral, while Ninon tripped and danced at his side. But soon the young girl's steps grew slower and slower, and her face thoughtful, and she began to question her mother's words,—that she was too much of a child to have a lover; and by the time she reached the village green she gave her pretty head a toss as she said, 'We'll see about this. Mother doesn't know everything.'"

"Now, Bel."

"But poor little Ninon," said Bel, "soon became sadly bewildered, for there were so many people all talking at once, and they pushed against and jostled her as if she were very small and insignificant indeed, and she began to think that her mother was right, and that she was only a child; and she grew frightened and wished herself at home again. But she kept fast hold of the hand of her brother whom the saints loved, and felt that as long as he was with her she was safe. Finally they were pushed and jostled to a quiet nook on the edge of the green, under a tree, and here they sat down. Soon the dancing commenced, and Ninon amused herself by criticising the people and making remarks to her brother about their dress and manner. But he did not seem to hear her, and his eyes were fixed on the sky, as if he saw more that was wonderful there than she upon the village green."

"Mr. De Forrest, you next."

"But as Ninon sat there smiling and talking more to herself than to her queer little brother, who didn't listen, the young men began to notice her, and to nudge each other and ask who she was; for in truth she reminded every one of a half-blown rose. But no one knew who she was, and no one had ever seen her before. Then the handsomest young man in the village—indeed he was the one at whom all the girls were setting their caps—stepped forward and took a deliberate survey, and soon was convinced that, among all the village maidens, there was not a face as fair as Ninon's. And while he looked at her Ninon from under her long lashes as intently watched him. At last the young man made up his mind, and said to himself, 'I will be her lover for this afternoon,' and in a manner that was the very embodiment of grace, he stepped up to her and said, 'My pretty maiden, wilt dance with me?'"

And De Forrest bowed to Lottie to continue. It was strange how the foolish little story was gaining the breathless interest of all present—all the more because each one was unconsciously coloring his bit of the mosaic with his own individuality. Lottie's manner by no means tended to allay this interest as she began her part of the impromptu tale. She was a natural actress, and, for the moment, became little Ninon. The scene had grown actual to her vivid fancy, and by some process that cannot be explained she impressed it upon the minds of the others as real. They saw the crowded village green, the petite maiden and her weird brother sitting upon its edge, as she began.

"And Ninon shyly raised her dark eyes to the face of the handsomest young man of all the village, at whom the girls were setting their caps, and said, a trifle coldly, 'I am only a little child who has come to see. Go thy ways.'

"And the handsome young man stalked away, haughty and offended; and the youth of the village nudged each other and smiled and wondered and said, 'She must be a princess in disguise, or she would dance with him whom all the girls covet.' So no one else would venture to speak to her. But Ninon for a while was content to be left alone to watch all the funny people and their funny ways. She didn't see any one with whom she wanted to dance.

"At last she became conscious that one who seemed a stranger like herself was watching her, and she began to look curiously at him. At first she did not like his looks at all, His dress was very plain,—not a bit smart and gay like that of the other young men. Besides, he was so tall and grave; and once, when some one said a rude word to him, his eyes were so fiery that Ninon was afraid of him. But a moment later, when his eyes rested on her, they became so kind and gentle that she wondered how it could be. Then she began to grow sorry for him because, like herself, he was a stranger and had no one to talk to. But he seemed in quest of some one, for he would look all around among the people; but soon his eyes would come back and rest wistfully upon her face, as if she were the one he was looking for after all. This puzzled Ninon greatly, and she asked herself, 'Now can it be that I am the one he's looking for?' At last it seemed that the stranger wished to speak to her, but hadn't the courage, and this amused Ninon vastly. Twice he advanced, faltered, and then retreated. Ninon was convulsed with laughter and whispered, 'O Pierre, isn't this the funniest thing that ever was in this great world? That big man there is afraid of me,—little Ninon.'

&............