good wine.

Some little time yet ere the company finally rose. The mahogany frame of
the broken looking-glass, standing on end, was conspicuous on the white
ground in the clear frosty night, as they streamed out from the house.
Mr. Speck, whose sight was rather remarkably good, peered at it
curiously from the hall steps, and then walked quickly along the snowy
terrace towards it.

Sure enough, it was a looking-glass, broken in its fall from an open
window above. But, lying by it in the deep snow, in his white
nightshirt, was Hubert Monk.

When the chimes began to play, Hubert was not asleep. Sitting up in bed,
he disposed himself to listen. After a bit they began to grow fainter;
Hubert impatiently dashed to the window and threw it up to its full
height as he jumped on the dressing-table, when in some unfortunate way
he overbalanced himself, and pitched out on the terrace beneath,
carrying the looking-glass with him. The fall was not much, for his room
was in one of the wings, the windows of which were low; but the boy had
struck his head in falling, and there he had lain, insensible, on the
terrace, one hand still clasping the looking-glass.

All the rosy wine-tint fading away to a sickly paleness on the Captain's
face, he looked down on his well-beloved son. The boy was carried
indoors to his room, reviving with the movement.

"Young bones are elastic," pronounced Mr. Speck, when he had examined
him; "and none of these are broken. He will probably have a cold from
the exposure; that's about the worst."