when we meet.

Your sincere friend,

Tom Temple.

P.S.--I might say that most of the guests will arrive on Christmas Eve.


"Just the very thing," I exclaimed. "I had been wondering what to do and
where to go this Christmas time, and this invitation comes in
splendidly."

Tom Temple lived in Yorkshire, at a fine old country house some distance
from the metropolis of that county, and was a really good fellow. As for
his mother and sisters, I knew but little about them, but I judged from
the letters his mother wrote him when at school, that she must be a
true, kind-hearted, motherly woman.

I accordingly turned to my desk, wrote to Tom, telling him to expect me
on the 24th inst., and then, without finishing my breakfast, endeavoured
to go on with my work. It was very difficult, however. My thoughts were
ever running away to Yorkshire, and on the pleasant time I hoped to
spend. Between the lines on my paper I was ever seeing the old baronial
hall that was Tom Temple's home, and the people who had been invited to
spend the festive season there. Presently I began to chide myself for my
foolishness. Why should the thoughts of a Christmas holiday so unfit me,
a staid old bachelor of thirty, for my usual work? Nevertheless it did,
so I put on my overcoat, and went away in the direction of Hyde Park in
order, if possible, to dispel my fancies. I did dispel them, and shortly