The woods are all bereft of green; the winds sigh wearily through them; "no grass the fields, no leaves the forests wear;" a shivering shroud envelops all the land. But far above, in the clear sky, Sol shines triumphant. Nor ice, nor snow, nor chilling blast has power to deaden him to-day. No "veil of clouds involves his radiant head." He smiles upon the earth, and ushers in the blessed morn with unexpected brilliancy. Innumerable sounds swell through the frosty air; sweet bells ring joyously. All the world is astir. Except Clarissa. She lies, still sleeping,--dreaming, it may be, that first glad dream of youth in which all seems perfect, changeless, passion-sweet! Upon her parted lips a faint soft smile is lingering, as though loath to depart. Her face is lightly tinged with color, as it were a "ripened rose." Upon one arm her cheek is pillowed; the other is thrown, with negligent grace, above her head. "Half-past eight, Miss Peyton, and Christmas morning; too," says a voice more distinct than musical, and rather reproachful. It rushes into Clarissa's happy dream like a night-mare, and sends all the dear shades she has been conjuring to her side back into their uncertain home. The maid pokes the fire energetically, and arranges something upon the dressing-table with much unnecessary vigor. Clarissa, slowly bringing herself back from the world in which Hester, however admirable in every respect, bears no part, sighs drowsily, and sits up in her bed. "Really that hour?" she says. "Quite too disgracefully late! A happy Christmas, Hester!" "Thank you, miss. The same to you, and very many of them!" "Is it a cold morning?" asks Clarissa, with a little shiver. She pushes back the soft waving masses of her brown hair from her forehead, and gazes at Hester entreatingly, as though to implore her to say it is warm as a day in June. But Hester is adamant. "Terrible cold, miss," she says, with a sort of gusto. "_That_ frosty it would petrify you where you stand." "Then I won't stand," declares Clarissa, promptly sinking back once more into her downy couch. "I decline to be petrified, Hester,"--tucking the clothes well round her. "Call me again next week." "The master is up this hour, miss," says the maid, reprovingly; "and see how beautifully your fire is burning." "I can't see anything but the water over there. _Is_ that ice in my bath?" "Yes, miss. Will you let me throw a little hot water into it to melt it for you? Do, miss. I'm sure them miserable cold oblations is bitter bad for you." Perhaps she means ablutions. Nobody knows. And Clarissa, though consumed with a desire to know, dares not ask. Hester is standing a few yards from her, looking the very personfication of all pathos, and is plainly an-angered of the frozen bath.