without any detriment to her outward cheerfulness. We know the
story of the Spartan boy who held the fox under his tunic. The fox
was biting into him,--into the very entrails; but the young hero
spake never a word. Now Bessy Garrow was inclined to think that it
was a good thing to have a fox always biting, so that the torment
caused no ruffling to her outward smiles. Now at this moment the
fox within her bosom was biting her sore enough, but she bore it
without flinching.

"If you would rather that he should not come I will have it
arranged," her mother had said to her.

"Not for worlds," she had answered. "I should never think well of
myself again."

Her mother had changed her own mind more than once as to the conduct
in this matter which might be best for her to follow, thinking
solely of her daughter's welfare. "If he comes they will be
reconciled, and she will be happy," had been her first idea. But
then there was a stern fixedness of purpose in Bessy's words when
she spoke of Mr. Holmes, which had expelled this hope, and Mrs.
Garrow had for a while thought it better that the young man should
not come. But Bessy would not permit this. It would vex her
father, put out of course the arrangements of other people, and
display weakness on her own part. He should come, and she would
endure without flinching while the fox gnawed at her.

That battle of the mistletoe had been fought on the morning before
Christmas-day, and the Holmeses came on Christmas-eve. Isabella was
comparatively a stranger, and therefore received at first the