The day was Christmas Eve, and there was to be a supper with a dance at the Hall, given by the squire to his workmen and their families. Tom was on his way to this, with a face that shone with yellow soap and the friction of a rough towel; and not only so, but he was to attend thither Isabella Frowd, the belle of the village, and one with whom, as every one said, he had made it up, and a handsome couple they would be. “Bless y’,” said Tom, when folks asked him when it would be, “Lor’ bless y’, you know more about it than me! Go and ax Bella. She, maybe, can fix it. ’Tain’t my place, you know!” And then he laughed, and thought he had said a good thing. Tom Mountstephen was an active, intelligent young fellow, serving as under-gardener, getting a respectable wage, and there was positively no reason why he should not marry; but he was inert in just this one particular, or unable to make up his mind. Isabella was three years his junior, with a very delicate skin and lovely rosy complexion, fair hair, and forget-me-not blue eyes; somewhat doll-like, save in this, that a doll is never self-conscious, and self-consciousness spoke out of every look of Bella’s eyes, every turn of her head, every motion of her body. But was she to be blamed? I think not. The squire always had a pleasant word to give her; the young ladies at the Hall made much of her; every one with one voice declared that she was a beauty and the pride of the village. Under such circumstances she must have been endowed with unusual common-sense and strength of character not to have become vain and self-satisfied. Bella lived at the Lodge, and it was her practice to open the gates when carriages drove up; and on such occasions she was quite aware that the ladies, and above all the gentlemen, looked at her, and when, immediately after passing, she saw them turn to each other and say something, then she was confident that they said: “What a pretty girl!” And being obliged to keep herself neat and nicely dressed did much towards making her attractive. It was understood, or half-understood, that Tom would call at the Lodge on his way to the Hall and pick up Isabella, and go on with her. It was in this way. The day before, Tom had said to her: “More wu’nerful things may hap, Bell, than that I should come and fetch you away to the Hall to-morrow, and then you’ll give me the fust dance and five arter.” “Well, I’m sure I don’t mind,” she had replied; and so it was understood that he should go for her, and that she should expect him. “Why, whatever be you about, Polly?” exclaimed Tom Mountstephen, as he came upon a tall, pale girl with pick and spade over her shoulder.