It was still snowing, and every thing was white; but the atmosphere of a quiet, happy Christmas was in the house.  There were smiling faces and good wishes at the breakfast-table, and the shifting lustres of blazing fires upon the dark walls and evergreens and wax-white mistletoe.  And the wind brought a Christmas greeting from the bells of Furness and Torver, and Sandal-Side peal sent it on to Earlstower and Coniston.  After breakfast they all went to church; and Harry saw, as in a dream, the sacred table spread with spotless cloth and silver cups and flagons, and the dim place decked with holly, and the smiling glance of welcome from his old acquaintances in the village.  And he fell into a reverie which was not a Christmas reverie, and had it suddenly broken by his sister singing high and clear the carol the angels sung on the hills of Bethlehem,—­“Glory be to God on high!” And the tears sprang into his eyes, and he looked stealthily at his father and mother, who were reverently listening; and said softly to himself, “I wish that I had never been born.”

For he had come to tell his father news which he knew would shake the foundations of love and life; and he felt like a coward and a thief in delaying the explanation.  “What right have I to this one day’s more love?” he asked himself; and yet he could not endure to mar the holy, unselfish festival with the revelation of his own selfishness.  As the day wore on, a sense of weariness and even gloom came with it.  Rich food and wine are by no means conducive to cheerfulness.  The squire sloomed and slept in his chair; and finally, after a cup of tea, went to bed.  The servants had a party in their own hall, and Mrs. Sandal and Charlotte were occupied an hour or two in its ordering.  Then the mother was thoroughly weary; and before it was quite nine o’clock, Harry and Charlotte were left alone by the parlor fire.  Charlotte was a little dull also; for Steve had found it impossible to get down the mountain during the storm, and she missed him, and was constantly inclined to fall into short silences.

After one of them, she raised her eyes to Harry’s face, and was shocked by its expression.  “Harry,” she said, leaning forward to take his hand, “I am sure you are in trouble.  What is it?”

“If I durst tell you, Charlotte!”

“Whatever you have dared to do, you may dare to tell me, Harry, I think.”

“I have got married.”

“Well, where is the harm?  Is it to the lady whose picture you showed me?”

“Yes.  I told you she was poor.”

“It is a great pity she is poor.  I am afraid we are getting poor too.  Father was saying last week that he had been talking with Squire Beverley.  Emily is to have fifteen thousand pounds.  Father is feverishly anxious about you and Emily.  Her fortune would be a great thing at Sandal, and father likes her.”

“What is the use of talking about Emily?  I have been married to Beatrice Lanza since last September.”