“Merry Christmas, ma’am!” cried the postman, trying to keep warm by cheerfulness.

Constance, taking the letters, responded, while Mr. Povey, playing the harmonium with his right hand, drew half a crown from his pocket with the left.

“Here you are!” he said, giving it to Constance, who gave it to the postman.

Fan, who had been keeping her muzzle warm with the extremity of her tail on the sofa, jumped down to superintend the transaction.

“Brrr!” vibrated Mr. Povey as Constance shut the door.

“What lots!” Constance exclaimed, rushing to the fire.  “Here, mother!  Here, Sam!”

The girl had resumed possession of the woman’s body.

Though the Baines family had few friends (sustained hospitality being little practised in those days) they had, of course, many acquaintances, and, like other families, they counted their Christmas cards as an Indian counts scalps.  The tale was satisfactory.  There were between thirty and forty envelopes.  Constance extracted Christmas cards rapidly, reading their contents aloud, and then propping them up on the mantelpiece.  Mrs. Baines assisted.  Fan dealt with the envelopes on the floor.  Mr. Povey, to prove that his soul was above toys and gewgaws, continued to play the harmonium.

“Oh, mother!” Constance murmured in a startled, hesitant voice, holding an envelope.

“What is it, my chuck?”

“It’s——­”

The envelope was addressed to “Mrs. and Miss Baines” in large, perpendicular, dashing characters which Constance instantly recognised as Sophia’s.  The stamps were strange, the postmark ‘Paris.’  Mrs. Baines leaned forward and looked.

“Open it, child,” she said.

The envelope contained an English Christmas card of a common type, a spray of holly with greetings, and on it was written, “I do hope this will reach you on Christmas morning.  Fondest love.”  No signature, nor address.

Mrs. Baines took it with a trembling hand, and adjusted her spectacles.  She gazed at it a long time.

“And it has done!” she said, and wept.

She tried to speak again, but not being able to command herself, held forth the card to Constance and jerked her head in the direction of Mr. Povey.  Constance rose and put the card on the keyboard of the harmonium.

“Sophia!” she whispered.

Mr. Povey stopped playing.  “Dear, dear!” he muttered.

Fan, perceiving that nobody was interested in her feats, suddenly stood still.

Mrs. Baines tried once more to speak, but could not.  Then, her ringlets shaking beneath the band of her weeds, she found her feet, stepped to the harmonium, and, with a movement almost convulsive, snatched the card from Mr. Povey, and returned to her chair.

Mr. Povey abruptly left the room, followed by Fan.  Both the women were in tears, and he was tremendously surprised to discover a dangerous lump in his own throat.  The beautiful and imperious vision of Sophia, Sophia as she had left them, innocent, wayward, had swiftly risen up before him and made even him a woman too!  Yet he had never liked Sophia.  The awful secret wound in the family pride revealed itself to him as never before, and he felt intensely the mother’s tragedy, which she carried in her breast as Aunt Harriet had carried a cancer.