She was looking happy, too—a circumstance which he misunderstood and misinterpreted in his own favor, for he could not know what had been passing in her own mind, or that her content was founded on the faith that she had discovered a perfect solution for the difficulty in which she had previously found herself. If the servant had not been present he would have expressed his contrition for having frightened her, and his delight in meeting her again, but there stood Laban, in his best holiday dress, a suit of fine black broadcloth, swallow-tailed coat and continuations, black satin vest and spotless linen, exhibiting at once the self-consciousness of a dandy and the solemnity of a bishop, and looking disapprobation on his shabby and rusty master, who had made no toilet in honor of the Christmas dinner. The young lady of the house took no notice of the colonel’s neglect; yet it was to her he spoke, of course, when he said: “I owe you an apology, my dear, for appearing before you in this style, but really——” “Never mind, uncle, dear. We are alone, so what does it matter? Who has a better right to appear in comfortable dishabille at his own table than you have?” she brightly inquired, thinking at the same time of the graver apology he owed her for a heavier offence. He naturally misinterpreted her good humor, and rewarded it with a smile of gratitude. Though they were but two, the dinner was a protracted one, for there were many courses, and the family cook would have felt enraged if every one of them had not been honored. And old Laban—a cross between a bishop and a dandy—waited with solemnity and self-conceit. At length it was over, and they adjourned to the drawing-room. “Shall I play Luther’s Christmas hymn for you, uncle, dear?” inquired Gloria, as she seated herself before the piano. “Yes, love, thank you, play that, but no more; for I wish to talk with you and settle something before I can take any interest in anything else,” he replied. Gloria sat down and played and sang with all her usual feeling, spirit and charm. When she had finished her hymn, she arose and went to the fire and seated herself beside her guardian; for she also wished to talk to him, and “settle something” which she believed would content them both. Colonel de Crespigney was the first to speak. “I was too sudden with you this morning, dear. I did not stop to consider how your nerves had been shaken by the frightful accident of yesterday, and so I startled you by a too abrupt disclosure of my feelings.” He paused a moment, and then added: “I beg you to forgive my want of consideration, dear child, and to let me hope——” He paused again, and she took his hand and said kindly: “Say no more about it, uncle, dear. I understand—I understand—and I have something to reply, presently.” “You understand, and yet you call me uncle!” he said, wincing.