’I never heard such sermons as Mr. Harewood’s either; it seems as if I had never listened before, but these go right down into one.  I cannot leave off thinking about the one last Sunday, about “making manifest the counsels of all hearts.”  I see now that I was not as much justified in not consulting Aunt Jane about Kalliope and Alexis as I thought I was, and that the concealment was wrong.  It came over me before the beautiful early Celebration this morning, and I could not feel as if I ought to be there till I had made a resolution to tell her all about it, though I should like it not to be till you are come home, and can tell her that I am not really like Dolores, as she will be sure to think me, for I really did it, not out of silliness and opposition, but because I knew how good they were, and I did tell you.  Honestly, perhaps there was some opposition in the spirit of it; but I mean to make a fresh start when I come back, and you will be near at hand then, and that will help me.

’26th.—–­The afternoon service of song began and I was called off.  I never heard anything so lovely, and we had a delightful evening.  I can’t tell you about it now, for I am snatching a moment when I am not rehearsing, as this must go to-day.  Dr. and Miss May, and the Lances, as they call them, are just come.  The Doctor is a beautiful old man.  All the children were round him directly, and he kissed me, and said that he was proud to meet the daughter of such a distinguished man.

’This must go.—–­Your loving daughter, ‘JULIANA MERRIFIELD.’

(HARRY.)

’COALHAM, Christmas Day.  ’It is nearly St. Stephen’s Day, for, dear mother, I have not had a minute before to send you or my father my Christmas greeting.  We have had most joyous services, unusually well attended, David tells me, and that makes up for the demonstration we had outside the door last night.  David is the right fellow for this place, though we are disapproved of as south country folk.  The boys are well and amused, Wilfred much more comfortable for being treated more as a man, and Fergus greatly come on, and never any trouble, being always dead-set on some pursuit.  It is geology, or rather mineralogy, at present, and if he carries home all the stones he has accumulated in the back yard, he will have a tolerable charge for extra luggage.  David says there is the making of a great man in him, I think it is of an Uncle Maurice.  Macrae writes to me in a state of despair about the drains at Silverfold; scarlet fever and diphtheria abound at the town, so that he says you cannot come back there till something has been done, and he wants me to come and look at them; but I do not see how I can leave David at present, as we are in the thick of classes for Baptism and Confirmation in Lent, and I suspect Aunt Jane knows more about the matter than I do.

’Gillian and Jasper seem to be in a state of great felicity at Vale Leston—–­and Mysie getting better, but poor little Phyllis Devereux has been seriously ill.—–­Your affectionate son, H. MERRIFIELD.’