(Now this was not at all what little Glo’ sent. She sent her “love to dear David Lindsay.” But Colonel de Crespigney exercised the guardian’s prudence and privilege in translating the message sent through him.) On hearing this, the boy would twist his little torn hat in his hand and say, timidly, hesitatingly: “If you please, sir, when you write—would you please to say I thank her very much for thinking of me, and I send her my——” “Respects.” “Yes, sir, please.” (Now this was not at all what the poor boy meant to say; for he really wished to send his “best love to her.”) The parted children had no true interpreter, so no wonder a gulf opened and widened between them. But Marcel meant well; and David Lindsay was destined to have his turn, when, driven by the very outrage and stress of fate, the lovely heiress should lay her hand and fortune at the feet of the poor fisherman and implore him to take them up. She did not come home for the happy Christmas holidays. Miss Agrippina represented to her brother that to bring the “Countess Maria” back to the promontory would be to have all the trouble of parting to go through again; that therefore she had best be left to spend her holidays at the school where she was receiving her education. The gentle colonel, through indolence and good nature, had fallen more and more under the dominion of his maiden aunt, and therefore consented to all her plans. So little Glo’ did not come home for her Christmas holidays. But her young uncle, who had not ceased to mourn in secret the absence of his pet, aroused himself from his lethargy, and went to the city, and took his niece from her prison, and spent the Christmas holidays with her at a fashionable hotel, taking her every evening to some place of refined amusement, and so devoting himself to her pleasure that the little rustic had reason to believe that, after all said, the city was the true Arcadia, and life, as “dee-ar Marcel” made it for her, a lovely fairy tale. But in all the delights of her new vista of life, she did not yet forget her childhood’s playmate, and amid her many questions about “them all at home,” she did not fail to inquire about “dee-ar David Lindsay.” Her guardian replied that the boy was well and doing well, but had not come to borrow any books yet, and, perhaps, was not so much interested in improving his mind as she had supposed. Boys of his class were not likely to be so. “But, Marcel, you must interest yourself in him, and not let his interest in his books flag. That was not what I expected of you, Marcel!” said his little monitress, reproachfully. “I will do better when I return, my darling,” replied her penitent. “Mind you do, Marcel! He has no father, no guardian even, and who will look after my David Lindsay now I am away, if you do not?” On the Monday after Twelfth Day he replaced the little student in her school and returned to his own dreary home and musty books.