CHAPTER L.

‘How goodness heightens beauty!’

‘Oh, what a Christmas Day!’ cries Betty, springing out of bed and rushing to the window.

‘You will catch your death of cold,’ says Susan sleepily; but in spite of this protest, or, rather, in despite of it, she, too, jumps out of her cosy nest and hurries to the window. ‘Oh, what a morning!’ breathes she.

And, indeed, the world seems all afire to-day. The sun is glittering upon the snow, and the snow is casting back at it lights scarcely less brilliant. All the trees and shrubs are gaily decked with snowy wraps and armlets, whilst here and there, throughthe universal white, big branches of holly-berries, scarlet as blood, peep out.

‘Ouf! Yes; but it’s cold,’ says Betty, after a moment or two.

‘I told you you would catch cold,’ says Susan, turning upon her indignantly, though in reality she stands quite as big a chance of meeting the dread foe as Betty.

‘I’ll catch you instead!’ cries Betty, with full intent.

Whereon ensues a combat that might have given the gods pause—a most spirited hunt, that takes them round and round the small bedroom a dozen times or more. It is a regular chase; over the bed, and past the wardrobe, and behind the dressing-table—it was a near shave for Susan that last, and full of complication, but she gets out of it with the loss of only one small china ornament, the very least concession that could be made to the god of battle.

And now away again! Over the bed once more, and round a chair, deftly directed at the enemy’s toes, and——After all, thevery bravest of us can sometimes know defeat, and Susan is at last run to earth between a basket-chair and a trunk.

After this they condescend to dress—both a little exhausted, and Betty, I regret to say, jibbing at her bath.

‘If it was hot I’d say nothing,’ says she. ‘When I’m married I’ll have a hot bath in December.’

‘Who’d marry you?’ says Susan, and then, like the immortal parrot, is sorry that she spoke. Showers of icy water descend upon her!

But now breakfast is ready, and they must hasten down, with a last look out of their favourite window at the golden colouring there.

‘I suppose it’s almost warm where Bonnie is,’ says Betty, after a slight pause.

‘I hope so. Yes; I think so.’ There is, however, doubt in Susan’s tone. It seems impossible to believe any place warm with that snow-burdened garden outside.

‘It must be warm,’ says Betty. ‘Bonnie could not stand cold like this, and the last accounts were not bad’—this rather doubtfully.

‘No. But’—Susan’s face, that had been glowing, now loses something of its warmth—‘not good, either. Still——Betty’—she looks at her sister—‘don’t you think Mr. Crosby is a man one might depend upon?’

‘Oh, I do—I do indeed!’ says Betty. ‘He’—earnestly, and with a view to please Susan—‘is so ugly that anyone might depend upon him.’

‘Ugly! He certainly is not ugly,’ says Susan. ‘I must say, Betty, I think sometimes you make the most foolish remarks.’

‘Well, I’ll say he’s handsome, if you like,’ says Betty, slightly affronted. ‘Any way, he has been very good to Bonnie. I suppose that’s what makes him handsome in your eyes. And he has been kind, too—could anyone be kinder?—and sometimes, Susan, I feel that I love him just as much as you do.’

‘Oh, I don’t love him!’ says Susan, flushing.

‘No? Is it gratitude, then? Well, whatever it is you feel, Susan, I feel just the same—because he has been so kind to poor Bonnie.’

Susan turns away without replying. And then, ‘We must go down,’ says she.

‘Well, come,’ says Betty, a little urgently. ‘I’m sure I have only been waiting for you, Susan. I wonder what Christmas cards we shall get.’

‘One from Dom, any way.’

Mr. Fitzgerald had been summoned home by his guardian for Christmas, much to his disgust.

‘Oh, that! But Dom doesn’t count!’ says Betty, tilting her pretty nose in rather a disdainful fashion.

Breakfast is nearly over, however, before the post arrives. The postman of Curraghcloyne has had many delays to-day. At every house every resident has given him his Christmas-box, and sometimes a ‘stirrupcup’ besides, so that by the time he gets to the Rectory he is very considerably the worse for wear. Yet he gives out his letters there with the air of a finished postman, and accepts the Rectory annual five shillings with a bow that would not have disgraced Chesterfield. That his old caubeen is on the side of his head, and his articulation somewhat indistinct, detracts in no wise from the dignity of the way in which he delivers his packages and bids Mr. Barry ‘All th’ complaints o’ t’ saison!’

‘Oh, here’s one from Dom!’ cries Betty, tearing open her letter. ‘And written all on the back! What on earth has he got to say on a Christmas card? Why didn’t he write a letter?

‘“My dear Betty,

‘“I feel as I write this that you don’t know where you are. That shows the great moral difference between you and me. I know where I am, and I wish to Heaven I didn’t. Old uncle is awfully trying. Putsyour back up half a dozen times a minute. I don’t believe I’ll ever get back; because if he doesn’t murder me I shall infallibly murder him, and then where shall we all be? I’ve written most religiously all over this card (I chose a big one on purpose), so that you cannot, in the usual mean fashion peculiar to girls, send it on again to your dearest friend as a New Year’s offering. See how well I know your little ways!”’

‘Isn’t he a beast!’ says Betty, with honest meaning. ‘And it would have done so nicely for old Miss Blake. You see, she has sent me one, though I had quite forgotten all about her. I must say Dom is downright malignant. I suppose I’ll have to buy her one now. All the rest of mine have “Happy Christmas” on them, and it does look badly to send a card like that for New Year’s Day. Dom’s has both Christmas and New Year on it, and of course it would have suited beautifully. Oh, Susan’—pouncing on a card in Susan’s hand—‘what a beauty, and nothingwritten on the back. You will let me have it for Miss Blake, won’t you?’

‘No, no,’ says Susan hastily. She takes it back quickly from Betty. A little sharp unwelcome blush has sprung into her cheeks.

‘Who is it from—James?’

‘James! Are you mad?’ says Susan. ‘Fancy my caring for a card from James! Why, here is his, and you can have it to make ducks and drakes of, if you like.’

‘But that, then?’ questions Betty, with some pardonable curiosity, pointing at the card denied her.

‘It is from Mr. Crosby. Don’t you think, Betty,’ the treacherous colour growing deeper, ‘that one should treasure even a card sent by one who has been so good to Bonnie?’

‘I do—I do indeed,’ says Betty earnestly. ‘And, after all, one would treasure a card from most people. Even this’—flicking Dom’s somewhat contemptuously—‘I’ll have to treasure, as I can’t send it away to anyone. Susan, I wonder if Ella has got any cardsbesides those we sent her? Shall we go to her this afternoon and ask her?’

‘I don’t suppose she can have got any,’ says Susan thoughtfully. ‘You know she keeps herself so aloof from the world. She had yours and mine certainly, and Carew’s.’

‘Did Carew send her one?’

‘Didn’t you know?’ Susan laughs a little. ‘I didn’t think it was a secret. I went into his room yesterday, and saw an envelope directed to Ella, and said something about it; but I really quite thought he had told you, too.’

‘Well, he didn’t! After dinner, Susan, let us run down and see her, and show her our cards.’

‘Oh no!’ says Susan, shrinking a little. ‘If she had none of her own, it might make her feel—feel lonely!’

‘That’s true,’ says Betty.

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