Eve we have spent together by the roaring logs in the old hall,
talking of old times; and every year there are more old times to
talk of. There are curly-headed boys, too, with red-gold hair and
dark-brown eyes like their mother's, and a little Margaret, with
solemn black eyes like mine. Why could not she look like her
mother, too, as well as the rest of them?

The world is very bright at this glorious Christmas time, and
perhaps there is little use in calling up the sadness of long ago,
unless it be to make the jolly firelight seem more cheerful, the
good wife's face look gladder, and to give the children's laughter
a merrier ring, by contrast with all that is gone. Perhaps, too,
some sad-faced, listless, melancholy youth, who feels that the
world is very hollow, and that life is like a perpetual funeral
service, just as I used to feel myself, may take courage from my
example, and having found the woman of his heart, ask her to marry
him after half an hour's acquaintance. But, on the whole, I would
not advise any man to marry, for the simple reason that no man will
ever find a wife like mine, and being obliged to go farther, he
will necessarily fare worse. My wife has done miracles, but I will
not assert that any other woman is able to follow her example.

Margaret always said that the old place was beautiful, and that I
ought to be proud of it. I dare say she is right. She has even
more imagination than I. But I have a good answer and a plain one,
which is this,--that all the beauty of the Castle comes from her.
She has breathed upon it all, as the children blow upon the cold
glass window panes in winter; and as their warm breath crystallizes
into landscapes from fairyland, full of exquisite shapes and
traceries upon the blank surface, so her spirit has transformed