one to my father, William Ludlow, who was younger than the Squire. It
was a green Christmas; the weather so warm and genial that the hearty
farmers, flocking to Leet Hall, declared they saw signs of buds
sprouting in the hedges, whilst the large fire in the Captain's
dining-room was quite oppressive.

Looking from the window of the parsonage sitting-room in the twilight,
while drawing on his gloves, preparatory to setting forth, stood Mr.
West. His wife was bending over an easy-chair, in which their only
child, little Alice, lay back, covered up. Her breathing was quick, her
skin parched with fever. The wife looked sickly herself.

"Well, I suppose it is time to go," observed Mr. West, slowly. "I shall
be late if I don't."

"I rather wonder you go at all, George," returned his wife. "Year after
year, when you come back from this dinner, you invariably say you will
not go to another."

"I know it, Mary. I dislike the drinking that goes on--and the free
conversation--and the objectionable songs; I feel out of place in it
all."

"And the Captain's contemptuous treatment of yourself, you might add."

"Yes, that is another unwelcome item in the evening's programme."

"Then, George, why _do_ you go?"

"Well, I think you know why. I do not like to refuse the invitation; it