Mr. Dale's parishioners did ample justice to the splendid Christmas fare provided for them.

Lydia Graham declared she had never witnessed anything that gave her half so much pleasure as this humble gathering.

"I would give up a whole season of fashionable dinner-parties for such a treat as this, Mr. Dale," she exclaimed, with an eloquent glance at the rector. "What a happy life yours must be! and how privileged these people ought to think themselves!"

"I don't know that, Miss Graham," answered Lionel Dale. "I think the privilege is all on my side. It is the pleasure of the rich to minister to the wants of the poor."

Lydia Graham made no reply; but her eyes expressed an admiration which womanly reserve might have forbidden her lips to utter.

While the pudding was being eaten, Mr. Dale walked round amongst his humble guests, to exchange a few kindly words here and there; to shake hands; to pat little children's flaxen heads; to make friendly inquiries for the sick and absent.

As he paused to talk to one of his parishioners, his attention was attracted by a strange face. It was the face of an old man, who sat at the opposite side of the table, and seemed entirely absorbed by the agreeable task of making his way through a noble slice of plum-pudding.

"Who is that old man opposite?" asked Lionel of the agricultural labourer to whom he had been talking. "I don't think I know his face."

"No, sir," answered the farm-labourer; "he don't belong to these parts.

Gaffer Hayfield brought 'un. I suppose as how he's a relation of Gaffer's. It seems a bit of a liberty, sir; but Gaffer Hayfield always war a cool hand."

"I don't think it a liberty, William. If the man is a relation of Hayfield's, there is no reason why he should not be here with the Gaffer," answered Lionel, good-naturedly, "I am glad to Bee that he is enjoying his dinner."

"Yes, sir," replied the farm-labourer, with a grin; "he seems to have an oncommon good twist of his own, wheresoever he belongs to."

No more was said about the strange guest--who was an old man, with very white hair, which hung low over his eyebrows; and very white whiskers, which almost covered his cheeks. He had a queer, bird-like aspect, and a nose that was as sharp as the beak of any of the rooks cawing hoarsely amongst the elms of Hallgrove that snowy Christmas-day.

After the dinner in the old hall, Lionel Dale and his guests returned to their own quarters; Mrs. Mordaunt and the three younger ladies walked in the grounds, with Douglas Dale and Sir Reginald Eversleigh in attendance upon them.

Miss Graham was the last woman in the world to forget that the income of Douglas Dale was almost as large as that of his brother, the rector; and that in this instance she might have two strings to her bow. She contrived to be by the side of Douglas as they walked in the shrubberies, and lingered on the rustic bridge across the river; but she had not been with him long before she perceived that all her fascinations were thrown away upon him; and that, attentive and polite though he was, his heart was far away.

It was indeed so. In that pleasant garden, where the dark evergreens glistened in the red radiance of the winter sunset, Douglas Dale's thoughts wandered away from the scene before him to the lovely Austrian woman--the fair widow, whose life was so strange a mystery to him; the woman whom he could neither respect nor trust; but whom, in spite of himself, he loved better than any other creature upon earth.

"I had rather be by her side than here," he said to himself. "How is she spending this season, which should be so happy? Perhaps in utter loneliness; or in the midst of that artificial gaiety which is more wretched than solitude."

The rector of Hallgrove and his guests assembled in the old-fashioned drawing-room of the manor-house rectory at seven o'clock on that snowy Christmas-night. The snowflakes fell thick and fast as night closed in upon the gardens and shrubberies, the swift-flowing river, and distant hills.

The rectory drawing-room, beautified by the soft light of wax-candles, and the rich hues of flowers, was a pleasant picture--a picture which was made all the more charming by the female figures which filled its foreground.

Chief among these, and radiant with beauty and high spirits, was Lydia Graham.

She had contrived to draw Lionel Dale to her side. She was seated by a table scattered with volumes of engravings, and he was bending over her as she turned the leaves.

Her smiles, her flatteries, her cleverly simulated interest in the rector's charities and pensioners, had exercised a considerable influence upon him--an influence which grew stronger with every hour.

There was a sweetness and simplicity in the manners of the two Misses Mordaunt which pleased him; but the country-bred girls lost much by contrast with the brilliant Lydia.

"I hope you are going to give us a real old-fashioned Christmas evening, Mr. Dale," said Miss Graham.

"I don't quite know what you mean by an old-fashioned Christmas evening."

"Nor am I quite clear as to whether I know what I mean myself,"

answered the young lady, gaily. "I think, after dinner, we ought to sit round that noble old fire-place and tell stories, ought we not?"

"Yes, I believe that is the sort of thing," replied the rector. "For my own part, I am ready to be Miss Graham's slave for the whole of the evening; and in that capacity will hold myself bound to perform her behests, however tyrannical she may be."

When dinner was announced, Lionel Dale was obliged to leave the bewitching Lydia in order to offer his arm to Mrs. Mordaunt, while that young lady was fain to be satisfied with the escort of the disinherited Sir Reginald Eversleigh.

At the dinner-table, however, she found herself seated on the left hand of her host; and she took care to secure to herself the greater share of his attention during the progress of dinner.

Gordon Graham watched his sister from his place near the foot of the table, and was well satisfied with her success.

"If she plays her cards well she may sit at the head of this table next Christmas-day," he said to himself.

After less than half-an-hour's interval, the gentlemen followed the ladies into the drawing-room, and the usual musical evening set in.

Lydia Graham had nothing to fear from comparison with the Misses Mordaunt. They were tolerable performers. She was a brilliant proficient in music, and she had the satisfaction of observing that Lionel Dale perceived and appreciated her superiority. She could afford, therefore, to be as amiable to the girls as she was captivating to the gentlemen.

The Misses Mordaunt were singing a duet, when a servant entered, and approached Lionel Dale.

"There is a person in the hall who asks to see you, sir," said the man, "on most particular business."

"What kind of person?" asked the rector.

"Well, sir, she looks like an old gipsy woman."

"A gipsy woman! The gipsies about here do not bear the best character."

"No, sir," replied the man. "I bore that in mind, sir, with a view to the plate, and I told John Andrew to keep an eye upon her while I came to speak to you; and John Andrew is keeping an eye upon her at this present moment, sir."

"Very good, Jackson. You can tell the gipsy woman that, if she needs immediate help of any kind, she can apply in the village, to Rawlins, but that I cannot see her to-night."

"Yes, sir."

The man departed; and the Misses Mordaunt finished their duet, and rose from the piano, to receive the usual thanks and acknowledgments from their hearers.

Again Miss Graham was asked to sing, and again she seated herself before the instrument, triumphant in the consciousness that she could excel the timid girls who had just left the piano.

But this time Lionel Dale did not place himself beside the instrument.

He stood near the door of the apartment, ready to receive the servant, if he should return with a second message from the gipsy woman.

The servant did return, and this time he begged his master to step outside the room before he delivered his message. Lionel complied immediately, and followed the man into the corridor without.

"I was almost afraid to speak in there, sir," said the man, in an awe-stricken whisper; "folks have such ears. The woman says she must see you, sir, and this very night. It is a matter of life and death, she says."

"Then in that case I will see this woman. Go into the drawing-room, Jackson, and tell Mrs. Mordaunt, with my compliments, that I find myself compelled to receive one of my parishioners; and that she and the other ladies must be so good as to excuse my absence for half an hour."

"Yes, sir."

The rector went to the hall, where, cowering by the fire, he found an old gipsy woman.