Anna did not wait for more to be said. She slipped quietly out of the room, and before Aunt Adelaide was finally roused by the second dinner-bell, the note of invitation was on its way to Little Cray Rectory, addressed in the clear writing of Anna Spencer. Guess, if you can, how the curate's brow smoothed, and the firelight seemed to dance again, as he read the kindly worded note, and felt that, in spite of drizzle and downpour—of the little sister's absence and his own loneliness—he could no longer look forward to the 25th of December with the thought that for him it would "not be a bit like Christmas." Miss Spencer had not to wait long for a reply. In fact, the curate carried it himself. Despite the remonstrances of Esther Morris, who persisted that the weather was "not fit for a dog to go out in, much less a Christian and a passon," he donned stout boots and macintosh, and, heedless of rain overhead and mud below him, arrived at Cray Holm just when the little party had adjourned to the drawing-room after dinner. Mr. Spencer rose and met him with words of welcome, adding that he was just wishing for a worthy opponent at chess; Aunt Adelaide thought Mr. Glyn very kind to venture out on such a night. And if Anna's words were few, her father put his own interpretation on her heightened colour, as she shook hands with Arthur, the last of the three. The father could scarcely forbear a smile as he mentally noted how quickly the invitation had been despatched to Mr. Glyn, and how prompt was the curate's response thereto. Arthur said pleasant words to and made inquiry after the health of Aunt Adelaide, told Mr. Spencer he fearlessly accepted his challenge to the mimic battle, only he must first answer Miss Spencer's kind note verbally. This took some little time, for he had to tell that Gertrude was not coming to Little Cray, and to add the reason why. Congratulations and inquiries followed, and Anna was not the least pleased to hear that the little dark-eyed governess was actually going to be the wife of a man whose position and means were similar to those of her own brother. Mrs. Esther Morris had looked out after the curate as he started on his wet walk to the squire's, and had fervently wished that Mr. Glyn, "as kind a gentleman as ever trod on shoe leather, might not find sour grapes at Cray Holm." We shall see. We must peep into the other great house, in which Mr. Roger Ulyett and Mr. Worthington are having a confidential chat. The rector has dined at Fairhill, and has arranged with his host all the details of the Christmas treat to the villagers. We already know something of Mr. Ulyett, so we will not describe his gorgeous mansion or say much about its master. Mr. Spencer's portrait was sufficiently correct, so far as character goes, though few knew how much of good was hidden under brusque manners and a somewhat caustic mode of speech affected by the millionaire of Fairhill.