festivities of the evening. There is no necessity that I should write of
what took place during the remainder of Christmas Eve. It was held in
good old English style, and to most, I am sure, it was very enjoyable. I
got an opportunity of speaking to Miss Forrest, but only for a very
short time; at the same time, I noticed that Voltaire took not the
slightest notice of her.

When I awoke the following morning and looked out, I saw that the great
Yorkshire hills were covered with snow, the air was bitingly cold, and
the leaden sky promised us some real Christmas weather.

I was soon dressed and ready to go down, but on looking at my watch I
found I had an hour to spare before breakfast. Arrangements had been
made for us to breakfast at ten, and thus be just in time for service at
the little village church.

On my way down-stairs I saw Tom Temple, who told me to find my way to
the library, where I should be able to pass the time pleasantly. I
entered the room, an old-fashioned dark place lined on every side with
books. I felt in no mood for looking at them just then, however, and so
walked to a window and looked out on the snow-draped landscape that
stretched away on every hand. It was a wondrous scene. The snow had
fallen steadily all through the night, and no breath of wind had stirred
the feathery flakes. Thus trees and bushes were laden with snow
crystals, while the spotless white was relieved here and there by some
shining evergreen leaves which peeped out amidst their snowy mantles.
Ordinarily I should have been impressed by it. Now, however, I could not
help thinking of other matters. One face was ever before me, and I
constantly wondered whether she were in real danger from these strange
men, and whether I should have any part in the labour of delivering her