"Better so," thought the curate, as he returned a civil, pleasant answer to Esther, and his thanks for the lamp, as if he had wished for either the one or the other. "If I have conquered the inclination to grieve after the real which is unattainable, no use for me to indulge in dreams, or fume if the vision is dissipated by the very substantial form of Esther Morris. If! but away with ifs!" And with no further self-indulgence than a single involuntary sigh after what might have been, the curate turned once more to his writing-table, and began to study his Christmas sermon. CHAPTER III. YES, there were two of them; though in a tiny village there ought only to be one squire. Indeed, there was only one by right of ancient ownership and long family residence, and that was Mr. Spencer, of Cray Holm, who united in his own person the patronage of the living and the possession of all the broad acres which were included in Little Cray. He had large estates elsewhere, in addition, was lord of the manor and everybody's landlord within a wide circle, but withal the kindest and most unassuming of men. He had a neighbourly greeting for young and old, the poor as well as the rich. He patted the heads of the youngsters who doffed caps or bobbed little curtseys at his approach, and had not an enemy in the world. During the past year he had sustained a terrible loss. The partner of more than thirty years had died, and now the family at Cray Holm consisted only of the father, his old maiden sister, Adelaide, and a single fair daughter, just out of her teens. One son and an elder daughter were married, and lived elsewhere. If you remember the figure that Arthur Glyn, the curate, saw in the little chair at his fireside, on that rainy December evening, you will not need a further description of the squire's daughter. Arthur's was but a twilight dream, which vanished at the sound of a voice. Anna Spencer was the living, breathing reality which had furnished the shadow for that vision. She was not at the curate's fireside, but at the very moment when the dream took place, she and her father were pacing up and down the drawing-room at Cray Holm—she with her slender fingers clasped on his arm and clinging to him, as they walked together, to and fro, on the velvety carpet with noiseless footfall. They talked softly, glancing now and then at the little old lady who was nodding by the fireside in the softest of chairs, whilst her brother and niece took the only exercise which the weather permitted. Aunt Adelaide had complained that it was a sleepy sort of day "not a bit like Christmas," and had proved it by napping over her knitting. Anna had stolen out and forbidden the man to bring in lamps as yet, in order that the old lady might rest on till dinner-time; so only the ruddy firelight cast its gleams in and about the room.