white world, that during the night has been covered over freshly, so that she is fair and spotless for the great, high festival, as a bride coming out of her chamber to meet her bridegroom. It is splendid enough, but a little cruel, perhaps, if one happens to notice that little dead robin yonder, whose crimson breast shows prettily enough against the snow. He has struggled gallantly through the bleak days and bitter nights, but to-day—on Christmas morning, the time of feasting and plenty—his poor, slender, starved, little body has found death.
Behind me the house is all alive and merry, with bustle and noise. They are all at home now save Jack, and they have decorated the whole place with holly and mistletoe, which gleams brightly red and white from every corner and cranny. The church clock strikes ten: in another hour church will begin, but I shall not go with the rest. I think I should stand here listening, though a year and a day passed before Paul came back.
What a noise the boys are making! I shall never be able to hear the sound of the carriage coming over the snow. Hark! What is that? My heart stands still, every pulse pauses, then bounds madly on, as a sound, a certain, dulled, muffled sound, comes to my ears from a distance. It is the sound of wheels—it is coming this way. Is that a carriage coming towards me? the snow has blinded my eyes, I cannot see. . . . I look up seeing, and there is George, alone. I do not move or speak as he comes over to me and looks into my face.
"He is dead?" I say, gently, looking away from him to a bird perched on a bough near, who is singing, absolutely singing—starved, and bitter cold as he is. Why do I not sing too?
"He is not dead," says George.
"Not dead!" I shriek, recoiling from him with parted lips and wide eyes—"not dead, did you say? Thank God! Thank God!"
And the frozen blood in my body stirs nimbly in my veins, and
