A Real English Christmas with Lady Betty

by A. M. Williamson and C. N. Williamson

A Real
English Christmas
With Lady Betty

By C. N. and A. M. Williamson
Authors of “Lady Betty,” “The Lightning Conductor,” etc.

MY BROTHER Stanforth liked the Valley Farm and the people there so much, that instead of whisking me instantly away, as he came to do, he stopped for two days and visited those nice Trowbridges.

They were Heavenly days for me; and though when they were over I had to say good-by to Jim I was happy still, because instead of being dragged back to England in disgrace I was to be triumphantly escorted home, quite a heroine.

Stan and I sailed alone, but Jim was to follow soon, and I had promised him that, if I could help it, he shouldn't be kept waiting for me long.

It only needed Stan's account of Jim to reconcile Mother fully to my engagement. What he is was something, even to her; but what he has—I'm ashamed to say—is a great deal more; and as he's much richer than Potter Parker she was delighted that her first plan had fallen through.

Never had she been so nice to me within the memory of man—or girl. She actually treated me like a rational human being. She said that, although I was so young, I should be married when I liked, and have exactly the kind of wedding I liked. Victoria had a grand one, in town, early in October, with eight bridesmaids, of whom I was one, and two pages to hold up her train.

I chose, however, to be married at Battlemead, in the dear old village church; and there was no fuss at all, but it was a lovely wedding, and the cottagers' children strewed my path to church with quantities of autumn roses and white chrysanthemums. They did it as a surprise to me, and I was so pleased. Only relations and friends came; and immediately after Jim took the happiest girl in the world away to Italy for a honeymoon.

That was in November, and we had no fixed plans except that Jim had promised Mother to bring me back to Battlemead in time for Christmas. She had taken the most extraordinary fancy to him at first sight, which wasn't to be wondered at, as I will say for Mother she appreciates all that is really first-rate; and Jim is that in every sense of the word, spiritually, mentally, physically. I never saw her so soft and feminine in her manner with any one as with Jim; and when she said that she wanted to get up all sorts of quaint, old-fashioned Christmas festivities at Battlemead, “in honor of her American son-in-law,” it would have been very ungrateful in us to refuse her invitation.

I suppose other brides think there could be no honeymoon like theirs, but I'm sure there never could be one like mine, for there's only one Jim Harborough in the world, unfortunately for all the other poor things.

Just when it was coming to an end—that is, as much as the honeymoon of two people who adore each other can be said to come to an end—we had a surprise. We were at Naples, when Jim received a letter from an aunt of his, the only relative—except the Trowbridges—whom he had ever loved dearly, since first his mother and then his father died while he was still a little boy.

The letter said that the aunt's daughter had been sent abroad to “see the world” with some friends who were “doing Europe.” She would probably be in Naples when we were, and would Jim ask his wife to be kind to her?

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Of course Jim didn't even need to ask; though I must admit I couldn't help being a tiny bit sorry that our beautiful duet would have to be turned into a chorus. However, we went at once to call at the hotel which the aunt mentioned, and the minute I saw Molly Wainwright my heart went out to her.

Her traveling companions had gone out, leaving her alone, luckily for us, and she came rather shyly into the hotel drawing-room, looking as much like Jim as it's possible for a daintily-beautiful girl to look like a big, brown young man.

We were friends at once; and when (after her shyness with me had worn off at finding we were of the same age) she confided to us the uncongeniality of her companions it was I who promptly invited her to join forces with us.

“What fun to take her to Battlemead, Jim, and let her see what an old-fashioned English Christmas is like!” said I.

“What about the Duchess?” asked Jim,

“Oh, you know Mother's so infatuated with you that she'll be charmed with any relation of yours, especially one so like you as Miss Wainwright. But, of course, we'll go through the form of wiring to know whether we may bring another guest.”

So it was settled. Mother's answering telegram said “Delighted,” as I knew it would. Little Molly was delighted, too, and with some diplomacy we stole her away from her very uninteresting friends, who had no souls except for Baedeker.

We arrived home the day before Christmas Eve; and I was quite curious as to the entertainment Mother meant to give us. I felt that she was going to put her soul in it, and spare neither trouble nor expense.

Stan himself came to the station to meet us with his big motor-car, which compliment was as much for Jim's sake as mine, if not more, for he thinks no end of his American brother-in-law. Girls rather bore him usually, because his idea is that they generally either simper in a simple, ingénue way, or else try to make tremendous running with him, just because he's a Duke. But I could see by the way he looked at Molly Wainwright that he was thinking her, at least, a good deal more promising than most of the girls he knew. He is rather handsome, too, with his merry blue eyes, and yellow hair like mine (though his face is tanned so brown), and his soldierly figure. But because he is shy of girls he has a manner with them which might make a stranger think he “put on airs” and perhaps Molly did get that idea of him, for she didn't seem to be very favorably impressed, I was sorry to see.

Somehow, the hour of our arrival must have leaked out—through some servant, perhaps—and there was quite a crowd around the station. As we flashed off they gave a cheer, as if we had been Royalties—such a hearty, affectionate cheer that it made me happier than ever, for it showed that people loved us; and one does like that, especially at Christmastime.

Vic and her new (though, alas, not young) husband had come home for Christmas, too; my cousin Loveland was there, and perhaps a dozen others, all relations.

We were only just in time to have some tea, chat for a little, and dress for dinner.

Nothing Christmassy happened that night except that we told each other ghost-stories around the fireplace in the great hall, after the men had joined us and we were all together—family ghost-stories, of haunted corridors, and strange apparitions which appear only at certain times and for certain reasons; of secret rooms, and hidden treasure, and skeletons found in the thickness of stone walls. But early next morning—the morning of Christmas Eve—we were up, and all of us who were young were out in the park, down by the plantation, as we call it, gathering ivy and laurel and pine, to decorate our own house and finish the village church—that dear little church where Jim and I were given to each other.

Stan had ordered a ladder to be brought from the stables, and Jim and he and Loveland all tore down great branches of pine and larch, while the girls searched for holly. All night it had been gently snowing, soft, feathery flakes that fluttered rather than fell, and though they had melted on the warm earth they clung to tree- branches, bushes and dead grasses. As we worked, laughing like children, we were powdered from head to foot with diamond-dust. and our cheeks tingled from the prick of tiny frost needles.

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At last we had loaded up a small cart with a tower of greenery, jeweled with holly-berries. This was driven by one of the under grooms to the church, and dumped down there; and by the time the cart had come back we were ready with the supply for the house.

While the new load was taken away to be put in charge of the butler we raced off by a short-cut for the church, and there was the vicar with his two daughters, and the curate who is engaged to one of them, all waiting to welcome us. They had had a fire going in the church for an hour, so it didn't seem at all cold to me; but Molly, being an American girl, shivered, until I set her to work at making wreaths with such energy that she soon forgot her sufferings.

Never was there such a delicious smell of freshly-cut pine as in our little church that morning, except the smell in the great hall when we got home after the church was finished. We had still two hours before luncheon, and how our hands did fly!

Each ancestor in the hall had his bunch of green or holly over his frame; antlers were hung with wreaths, and even the poor empty suits of armor standing against the stone walls had necklets given them at Molly's suggestion. We made a triumphal arch to go over the staircase; and the oak wainscoting in the dining-hall was festooned from portrait to portrait.

We were indeed tired by two o'clock, and ate as if we'd been starving on a desert island for months. Molly looked radiant, with eyes like stars and cheeks like Christmas roses; and after luncheon, while we were having coffee in the hall and waiting to see the Yule log brought in, my cousin Loveland brought a chair close to mine.

“I say,” he whispered, “are any of the family millions going to swell that young lady's dot?”

“There are no family millions,” said I. “Jim found his.”

“Do you mean to say that Miss Wainwright isn't an heiress?” he asked

Really, I didn't know, and couldn't have told, even if I would, whether Molly Wainwright was an heiress or not. I could see that she had charming clothes, and her people could not be poor, or they would hardly have sent her abroad. Of course, I could easily find out by asking Jim, but I suddenly made up my mind that I'd rather not know anything about the girl's circumstances, as I was sure to be pumped by lots of people if she were with us long, and whatever happened it would be hateful for her to be made love to for her money, if she had it. So I replied, “I don't know.'

“Well, then, I'm at liberty to form my own conclusions, and I will. She's rich, horribly, beastly rich; or Stan wouldn't be making up to her the way he is.”

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I was angry; for whatever Stan's faults may be he isn't like that, even if Loveland is. And to add to my disgust, at that very instant little Molly flitted up, to ask some question or other. She must have heard part, if not all, and have drawn her own conclusions as to the sort of family we were. I could feel myself growing as scarlet as the holly-berries Jim had stuck in my hair; and the worst of it was the impossibility of explaining.

Luckily, just then appeared our Yule log, a noble creature, dragged on a kind of rough platform covered with greenery by four stout men in quaint costumes that had been worn by their ancestors—our family's tenants—generations and generations ago. They entered singing, in rather a shamefaced and quavering manner, a verse made, like their coats, for such occasions, and quite as old, perhaps older.

“Come, bring with a noise,
My merrie, merrie boyes,
The Christmas log to the firing:
While my good dame, she
Bids ve all be free,
And drink to your heart's desiring.”

Mother, I suppose, was the “good dame” in this instance; and she deigned to join in with Stan, Vic, Loveland, myself and some of the other cousins in the refrain. This encouraged the poor men so much that they fairly roared out the lines on their way to the huge, open fireplace, and never stopped till they had the log past the carved stone wolves which, on each side of the high mantel, have held up the shields with our family arms ever since the days of Henry the Eighth.

The log wasn't quite a whole tree, for the root had been sent to the vicar, and Stan's most important tenant had received the top bit. But it was a monster; and, according to a custom as old perhaps as the Druids, the tree had been cut down on Candlemas Day, when it was also carefully fired to be ready when its great moment should come on Christmas Eve.

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Now it was in the fireplace, but the ceremony wasn't over yet by any means; indeed, the most important part was to come; and it was timed for sunset. This would not be for twenty minutes; so meanwhile a couple of footmen brought in a big silver salver, with old tankards for the men who had dragged the Yule log, and they drank his Grace's health, the health of all the family and the family's guests. Stan drank their health, too, and Mother and the rest of us bowed and smirked most agreeably. Then Stan looked at his watch and said that it was now sunset.

This was the signal for the next performance, for at sunset the Yule log had to be lighted from the charred brand of last year's log, carefully saved for the purpose. Stan, as the head of the house, had to light it, and if it took fire quickly good luck was supposed to attend the footsteps of all those assembled under the roof—good luck, not for a single day, but till Christmas Eve came round again.

“This was explained to Jim and Molly, the only ones in the party of fourteen who didn't know the superstition, and Molly was quite excited until she heard that, after all, the luck wasn't properly assured unless the Yule log burnt well all night and until sunset on Christmas. If it went out, and had to be relighted, the dogs of misfortune would be let loose; and even if it blazed away magnificently for the specified twenty-four hours we couldn't consider ourselves absolutely safe. Should any squint-eyed person come into the house while the log burned, quick as a flash all the good signs that had gone before would be contradicted; and because of this old tale Mother hadn't been able to invite quite an amusing cousin whom we all liked in spite of the funny little cast in his eyes. Then, besides, we had to beware of any one centering our doors with bare feet; but if these calamities could be avoided we might congratulate ourselves that there was nothing to fear.

When the log had begun to crackle and send out sparks, there was nothing more for its four bearers to co except to receive a present in silver pieces from Stan, and to leave the room with bowings and scrapings.

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After they had gone we had just time for tea, when the next ceremony had to be gone through. All the small tenants and cottagers arrived, in accordance with an old custom in our family, to receive Christmas presents from Mother and Stan.

The things were laid out on a huge carved table in the hall, and the people filed in, in their best clothes, with shining faces, happy, yet embarrassed. Mother and Stan shook hands with each one, and so did Vie and I. They had the joy of gazing upon the two new members of the family, Vic's husband and mine; and then they received gifts of useful things which I should have hated, but they had to pretend to like, even if they didn't, poor dears. When they had had appropriate words said to them, and had mumbled appropriately in turn, they filed away as they had come, to be given a big spread in a room adjoining the servants' hall, which was held sacred to such feasts.

It was great fun talking over the scene, about which a whole story or poem might easily have been written; and before we knew how time had flown it was half-past seven, and the first dressing-gong was sounding.

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Dinner was at eight, as usual, and when we had got to the sweets suddenly there was a burst of music outside the windows of the dining-hall. The Waits had come!

They were not common Waits, with squalling, ill-trained voices, all out of tune, and going flat on the high notes; Mother had seen to that as one detail in the general scheme of her preparations. Never had carols been more beautiful nor more thrilling, I'm sure, and the lovely words, sung by lovely, youthful voices, touched our hearts. If we hadn't already been filled with the true Christmas spirit we should have been bursting with it after we had listened to the Waits for five minutes.

They sang on and on, carol after carol, and we could dimly see their figures outside the windows, dark against a white glimmer of snow. Instead of wishing them away and thinking them a frightful nuisance, as, alas, one does with ordinary Waits, we applauded and encored, so that their repertoire of Christmas carols must have been strained to the limit of its resources. When at last the voices were silent, Stan sent out whole handfuls of silver on a plate, and then the company of Waits was invited into the feasting-room, as Vic and I used to call it, for hot coffee, sandwiches and Christmas cake.

I shouldn't wonder if the servants hustled them away in the end before they were really anxious to go, for the hour was approaching for one of the great events of the servants' year—the ball which Mother and Stan have always allowed them to have on Christmas Eve. This year it was to be an especially grand affair, for the amusement of Jim and Molly, who only knew by hearsay what an English servants' ball was like.

All the servants from all the big houses of the neighborhood were asked, and had, of course, accepted. Also a few of our own friends from the same houses were coming for a little fun; and at half-past ten promptly the “show”—as they called it—began.

Our ballroom at Battlemead Towers is the best in the county, and as the idea in giving the ball is to pay a compliment to the servants as a reward for good service during the year it is always given to them for their grand dance.

The maids and footmen had decorated it with greenery and holly, suggestive bunches of mistletoe of course, and such flags as Mother was willing to let them use, and the floor had been waxed till it shone like a mirror. We had the music from town, as the village band, unfortunately, isn't like those of ancient days, of which one reads; and eight men were in the musicians' gallery.

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When the groom of the chambers let us know that everything was ready we all trooped in to open the ball in the good old way, Mother dancing with Prendergast, the butler, who has been in our family ever since even Stan can remember, and Stan leading out the housekeeper, who looked a smiling, apple-cheeked pet in her best black satin and all the jewelry she has had given her for Christmas presents during the last ten years!

Vic danced with the groom of the chambers, and I with the coachman. Molly had the best-looking footman; Jim, the head housemaid, and so on.

It was a quadrille, of course, and the stateliest one imaginable—no romping, but every one at his or her very best, and most dignified, I can tell you!

After that our duty was finished. We stayed and danced a waltz among ourselves, while the servants danced together, all except the butler, the housekeeper and the groom of the chambers, who were much too important to do anything but look on, when they hadn't “the quality” for their partners.

When we had had that one good waltz for our own fun (Jim and I danced together, oddly enough, for the very first time) we retired en masse, leaving the servants to enjoy themselves in the hearty way that would have been impossible for them if we had been looking on.

But the spirit of dancing was upon us, with the spirit of Christmas, and Vic played the piano for all the rest of the young people to dance in the hall, and we ended up with the wildest Sir Roger de Coverley

Next morning, about half-past eight, we were waked up by more carols, clear and sweet, under our windows.

It's only at Christmas that the members of a house-party at Battlemead ever feel obliged to assemble for breakfast; but this Christmas Day not one person was missing. Jim and I had given each other presents, with our “Merrie Christmas” greetings, the first thing in the morning, but there were gifts from everybody to everybody on everybody's plate, and that breakfast was a merry meal! We chattered and laughed and exclaimed over our things, as if we'd been in the nursery, while the faces of the servants were beaming, not only because they had had a good ball, but also because they had had Christmas things, without waiting for Boxing Day.

Directly after breakfast we had to think of getting ready for church, for not a soul had made an excuse to stop at home on this glorious Christmas morning. Some of us drove; some of us walked; and I was so happy I could have cried, because it was my first Christmas with Jim.

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Dear little church, how pretty it looked, thanks to our efforts yesterday; and the sweet fragrance of the pine and the faintly bitter scent of broken holly stems were more delicious than ever.

The vicar's daughters had taken immense pains with the carols, and if the sermon was a little prosy the music made up for it. It was nice, too, to see my old friends, and have them come up, on the church porch, to wish me joy on my marriage, as well as a happy Christmas, and, of course, after being married for nearly eight weeks it was quite a matter of fact by this time to be Lady Betty Harborough.

One dear old thing I used to visit in her cottage with presents of tea and red flannel for her rheumatism waited for me in the path which leads straight through the pretty churchyard. Jim and I were walking together, and Stan had annexed Molly, who had to be polite to him whether she liked it or not, as he was really her host.

“No good my giving your Ladyship the onions this year,” chuckled the old dame.

“No,” said I, “but you can give them to Miss Wainwright, my husband's cousin, who's staying with us.”

Old Mrs. Marner looked from Molly's puzzled face to Stan's laughing one.

“Will the young lady be staying till arter January sixth?” she eagerly inquired.

“Yes, that will be all right,” said I; “we must keep her till after the frost breaks, so she can have a hunt; and we sha'n't let her go after that till there's been a good hunt ball.” Then I turned to Molly. “Will you promise to let me name your onions for you if I explain what they mean, and tell Mrs. Marner to get them for you?”

“Yes,” she replied, without stopping to think, though, perhaps, she would have liked to take back her word when she knew what the promised privilege entailed.

“Mrs. Marner will say an old charm over four onions,” I explained. “Then she will send them to you; I will name them; and tonight you'll place one in each corner of your room. Oh, they won't be horrid, I assure you; they aren't that kind. And the one which has a shoot before January sixth you'll marry before the same date next year.”

“What, the onion?” gasped Molly.

“No, its namesake—little goose!”

“And she mustn't forget the white roll,” laughed Victoria, coming up just then. “You cut off a bit from one, and tuck it under the right arm of your nighty when you go to bed Christmas night. If you do this, as sure as sure you'll see in a dream the face of the man you're to marry. Now, hurry home, all of you children; we've got that silly Christmas tree to dress.”

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“That silly Christmas tree” was to be for the village children, and it was already towering from its green-covered box in the feast-room, blossoming with colored candles and waiting for further decorations.

They were to be simple, and the maids had been busy making chains of silver paper, stringing red berries, and cutting out gold paper butterflies. Other things had been bought at the village shops, which had to be patronized, or their owners' hearts would have been wrung; and it was the task allotted to us young people to make the tree pretty before half-past three o'clock.

We began before luncheon, and, thanks more to the almost desperate energy of Jim, Stan and Loveland than to feminine art, the fragrant branches were wreathed with shining chains, glittering with colored glass balls, oranges, apples and gilded nuts before the gong sounded for luncheon at two o'clock.

We galloped through luncheon, rather to Mother's disapproval, and got to work at hanging toys, books, mittens, bags and boxes of sweets and marbles. All was finished by a quarter-past three, and, though we were rather breathless, we had been having such fun that we were quite ready to romp with the children.

Since time immemorial we've had this tree for the village children on Christmas afternoon; but never had there been such nice presents as this year, for now that Mother's mind is at rest about her two daughters she can afford to be extravagant, for herself and Stan, too; and Stan is invariably wildly generous at Christmas, somehow or other, whether he has any money to play with or not.

The children were supposed to go at five, after a “sit-down tea” with mugs of milk and all sorts of cakes; but they did not tear themselves away, under the chaperonage of radiant mothers, until nearly half-past.

We did feel that we had earned our tea! But Mother forbade us to eat too many caviare sandwiches or cakes lest we should ruin the great event of the day by spoiling our appetites for Christmas dinner. As if there were any danger of that!

Besides our own house-party of uncles, aunts and cousins, nobody outside was asked to dinner except all the vicar's family, and the youngest daughter's curate. But with them there were twenty of us, and no danger of the table looking like a tiny white oasis in a desert of black oak, as it does when there are only three or four of us in that huge dining-hall, made for a hundred knights. Of course, we always dress plainly in the country except for dinner; and in honor of this great occasion we all made ourselves as smart as if we were going to a Royal ball.

And, instead of having us walking calmly in and taking our seats in the ordinary way, Mother had arranged a program according to the usage of the “good old days” when people took Christmas in earnest, in place of half-playing at it as—to amuse my American husband and his cousin—we were doing now.

We assembled in the great hall, awaiting a signal, which was to be given by two Highland pipers, imported by Loveland from his place in Scotland.

The butler, rather sheepfaced in a wonderful livery worn by his predecessors a hundred and fifty years ago, bore on high a huge, vicious-looking boar's head on a big dish of gold. He was a noble brute, worthy of the Scandinavian ancestors who started the fashion of serving him up on Christmas. He was bristling with rosemary, had a lemon in the middle of his ferocious smile, and raisins and pistachio-nuts where his eyes would otherwise have been conspicuous by their absence.

On each side of the butler was a footman with a tall candle in a gold candlestick, for that was part of the ceremony; and behind marched another footman carrying another gold dish containing a thing so beautiful that everybody cried “Oh!” and clapped hands. It was a peacock pie, made according to the old, old fashion: head and tail out of the rich, brown crust; the beak gilded; the brilliant fan of feathers spread as proudly as if the bird had been strutting on the terrace.

This dish was solemnly handed to Victoria, as the eldest daughter of the house, and, attended in her turn by two footmen with candles, she and the butler formed up the procession for the dining-room, each one holding the gold dish high in the air, and the pipers in their kilts piping for dear life.

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We all marched around the hall, stopping the dishes twice at suits of armor worn by brave old ancestors, then on to the dining-hall, where, from behind a screen, a burst of caroling saluted us and stopped the piping; not sacred caroling, but merry, old songs dedicated to the boar's head,

The “Bore's Head” carol, with the music, will be found on page 16.

the peacock and the wassail-bowl.

“Caput apri defero
Reddens laudes Domino,
The boar's head in hand bring I,
With garlands pay and rosemary.
I pray you all sing merrily,
Qui estis in convivio.”

And

“Oho the bow! at Christmastime
With spices we prepare,
And every draught that then is quaffed
Shall have a flavor rare.”

Chorus:

“We mix and drink, and each good soul

Trolls out, Hey for the Wassail-Bowl.”

Of course, there was a “baron” of beef on the sideboard, which ought to have groaned, even if it was too well-bred to do so, with its load of venison pasties, the Christmas roasted kid of old days, the York ham, and goodness knows what besides.

Jim tried manfully to eat something of everything to please Mother, but the blazing plum pudding was a pleasure as well as a duty; and though, of course, nowadays nobody but the most old fashioned people ever think of having the cloth removed, this was the night for old fashions, so the butler gravely took ours away at last.

Then, on the polished mahogany, he set the huge silver wassail-bowl, which has been in our family ever since such a thing was as much a necessity as one's knife and fork—or, perhaps, rather more so.

The great vessel was garlanded with holly and ribbons, and on the rich, red-brown surface bobbed roasted apples, raisins and cloves.

It was Stan's turn to lift the bowl first to his lips, for this must always be done by the head of the house. He drank, wishing health and happiness to everybody, but looking at Molly, who looked at the ceiling. Then the bowl was passed from hand to hand, and we all tipped it skillfully, for, though it was horribly heavy, to spill a drop from the wassail-bowl would be a crime.

As the last person to drink set the big vessel down there was an indescribable Babel at the door, and, to the intense surprise of every one except Mother (and perhaps Stan), in rushed the Lord of Misrule followed by his band of Mummers.

I had never seen anything like it except in old pictures, but I knew at once what it meant; and, when the most wonderful series of dances began, given by the queerest, masked, goblin-like things, and directed by the Lord of Misrule himself, I voted Mother a very clever stage-manager.

Some of the creatures were evidently children, they were so small, others were almost giants; and I found out afterward that they were theatrical people from town, who had been rehearsing their dances and quaint performances for a week, from the old books they ad studied to find them.

It was close upon eleven o'clock when the band at last vanished, as wildly as they had come, tumbling over each other to the door in following their Over-Lord, after many fantastic bowings and salaams. Then we had an impromptu dance, which was the best of fun because we were in the best of humors, and it ended up by Loveland giving us a Highland fling to the music of his own pipers.

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“I never had such a good time in my life, Duchess,” said Molly, as she was bidding Mother good-night, about two o'clock, when the outside guests had gone.

“I'm very glad to hear that you like our old English customs so much,” Mother replied very graciously. “You ought to stop in England through the summer and have a season in town, when you could have a chance to see the new customs, and decide which you like best.”

“Oh, do!” I cried. “Jim is going to take a house for me in London, for the season, you know, and Mother's to present me, on my marriage. She'd present you, too—wouldn't you, Mother?—and all the Royalties would be sweet to you.”

“I should be very pleased,” said Mother.

Stan didn't say anything, but he looked at the girl. I had never seen him so handsome or so nice. That is what falling in love can do for a man, I suppose; for I believe he is falling in love with Molly Wainwright.