"Ah, this is like Christmas," said the old Major as he wended his way with his wife and Ande to Trembath Manor on Christmas eve. The Manor was to be reopened that night and the strange owner, through his secretary, had sent out invitations to the country around, and among those receiving invitations were the Major and his wife and son. They passed through the gates, the old Major pausing a moment to scan the Trembath arms and remarking, "I am glad the new owner has not seen fit to remove our coat-of-arms from the gates." "The drive-way is in better shape than it was in the days of Squire Vivian," said Ande, as the gravel crunched under their advancing steps. "A careful and neat owner; it will do me good to meet him," said the Major. Forth through the trees ahead gleamed the twinkling lights of many windows, only obstructed by the passing of forms within and the figures of many great holly wreaths. The great lantern in front of the double doors was gleaming brilliantly through its festoons of evergreen, and from the hall could be heard the sound of ringing festivity and jollification. The door was opened widely at the sound of the great knocker, and the butler footman, bowing low, ushered them into the great hall. Groups of elderly people were engaged at their favourite game, whist, at different tables, and down the long room were others engaged in sundry amusements. The panelled walls had been rewaxed and were glistening with holly and mistletoe. The large picture of Squire Vivian's father still smiled friendly at the picture of King George II on the other wall, and in the great open fireplace roared, cracked, leaped, danced and shouted with all the ecstacy of Christmas jollity the flames of the great yule log. "Where's the new squire?" whispered the old Major to his son. He had hardly asked the question, before he started back in amazement at a sight he saw over the great, panelled fireplace. Two great oil-paintings, heavy in their rich framings, riveted his attention. He stared at them and then at the crowd of Christmas revellers, who, though now thoroughly quieted, yet had gleams of suppressed merriment on their countenances. What could it mean? Those pictures? Where had they obtained them? Was his mind affected? He knew that he was growing old, and as he dazedly thought of this, he hurriedly passed his hand through his whitened hair, a gnarled, brown bough in the midst of a snowdrift. The folding doors, separating the servants' hall from the apartment they were in, were thrown open, revealing the merry faces of group after group of servants. It was a tableau of suppressed excitement, broken at length by the voice of Parson Trant.