She revered her godfather, and it was no small nor irrelevant discovery to find that he had actually turned a picture in disgrace to the wall, because its owner had descended to the level, or probably not quite to the level, of Henry Little.

Jael Dence came up from the farm on Christmas afternoon, and almost the first word Grace spoke was to ask her if she knew whose picture that was in the dining-room.  This vague description was enough for Jael.  She said she could not tell for certain, but she had once heard her father say it was the Squire’s own sister; but, when she had pressed him on the subject, the old man had rebuked her—­told her not to meddle too much with other folks’ business.  “And, to be sure, Squire has his reasons, no doubt,” said Jael, rather dryly.

“The reason that is written on the back?”

“Ay:  and a very poor reason too, to my mind.”

“You are not the best judge of that—­excuse me for saying so.  Oh dear, I wish I could see it.”

“Don’t think of such a thing, miss.  You can’t, however, for it’s padlocked down that way you could never loose it without being found out.  No longer agone than last Yule-time ’twas only turned, and not fastened.  But they say in the kitchen, that one day last month Squire had them all up, and said the picture had been tampered with while he was at Hillsboro’; and he scolded, and had it strapped and padlocked down as ’tis.”

The reader can imagine the effect of these fresh revelations.  And a lover was at hand, of good birth, good manners, and approved by her godfather.  That lover saw her inclining toward him, and omitted nothing to compliment and please her.  To be sure, that was no uphill work, for he loved her better than he had ever loved a woman in his life, which was a good deal to say, in his case.

They spent Christmas Day very happily together.  Church in the morning; then luncheon; then thick boots, a warmer shawl, and a little walk all together; for Mr. Raby took a middle course; since no positive engagement existed, he would not allow his fair guest to go about with Mr. Coventry alone, and so he compromised, even in village eyes; but, on the other hand, by stopping now and then to give an order, or exchange a word, he gave Coventry many opportunities, and that gentleman availed himself of them with his usual tact.

In the evening they sat round the great fire, and Mr. Raby mulled and spiced red wine by a family receipt, in a large silver saucepan; and they sipped the hot and generous beverage, and told stories and legends, the custom of the house on Christmas night.  Mr. Raby was an inexhaustible repertory of ghost-stories and popular legends.  But I select one that was told by Mr. Coventry, and told with a certain easy grace that gave it no little interest.

MR. COVENTRY’S TALE.