But little Jane had gone.

Christmas day dawned clear and keen; the sky was full of its bluest sparkle, and, wheresoever it mounted and stretched over snowy fields, seemed to hold nothing but gladness.  Vivia had wrapped herself in her cloak, and walked two miles to an early church-service, so if by any accord of worship she might put her heart in tune with the universe.  She had been at home a half-hour already, and sat in her old nook with some idle work between her fingers.  A broad blaze rolled its rosy volumes up the chimney, and threw its reflections on the shining shelves and into the great tin-kitchen, that, planted firmly, held up to the heat the very bird that had moved so majestically over the spring meadow, and which Mrs. Vennard was at present basting with such assiduity, that, if ever the knife should penetrate the crisp depth of envelope, it would certainly find the inclosure unscathed by fire.  Little Jane was stirring enormous raisins into some wonderful batter of a pudding,—­for she remembered the time when somebody used to pick out all his plums and leave the rest, and she meant, that, so far as her skill and her resources would go, there should be no abatement of Christmas cheer to-day.  And if, after all, everybody disdained the bounteous affair, why it could go to Tommy Low’s mother, who would not by any means disdain it.  Every now and then she turned an anxious ear for any movement in the cold distance,—­but there was only silence.

Suddenly Vivia started.  A door had swung to, a strange sharp sound echoed on the staircase, the kitchen-door opened and closed, and Ray set his back against it.  He did not attempt to move, but stood there darkly surveying them.  Vivia looked at him a second, then rose quickly, crossed the room, and kissed him.  Immediately Mrs. Vennard made a commotion, while the other led him forward and placed him in her chair.  Little Jane pushed aside the pudding hastily, and proceeded to mull some of her mock Sherry, that his heart might be warmed within him; and the cat came rubbing against his crutch, as if she would make friends with it and take it into the family.  Mrs. Vennard resumed her basting; Vivia began talking to him about her work and about her walk, murmuring pleasantly in her clear, low tone,—­Janet now and then putting in a word.  Ray sat there, sipping his spicy draught, and looking out with an unacquainted air at the stir to which his coming had lent some gladness.  But his face was yet overcast with the shadows of the grave.  In vain Mrs. Vennard fussed and fidgeted, in vain little Jane uttered any of her brisk, but sorry jesting, in vain Vivia’s gentle voice;—­it all touched Ray’s heart no other way than as the rain slips along a tombstone.  Vivia folded her work and disappeared; she was going to light a fire in her parlor, where there had been none yet, and where by-and-by in the evening shadows she might play to Ray, and charm him, perhaps, to rest.  Mrs. Vennard divined her purpose,