The Christmas holidays were close at hand, and I dreaded them so much, I would have liked to sleep over them. Indeed, holidays become sad things as one grows older. In case of those which the church has always held sacred, one can, indeed, find comfort in looking at the great truths they commemorate. Mr. Batie had gently pointed this out to me, and had bidden me take refuge from my sad thoughts in meditations on the wonderful mystery of God manifest in the Babe at Bethlehem. I tried to do so, and did in some sort succeed, though the sad remembrance of our last happy Christmas at Coombe Ashton would at times sweep all before it in a flood of tears. I was determined, however, that I would not be a kill-joy, and I threw myself with zeal into all the preparations in which these good folks delight. I was helping my lady to dress some fine dolls like English ladies for the granddaughters of our first host, Monsieur Claude, when there was a knock at the street door, and presently Mrs. Curtis beckoned my lady out of the room. I was surprised, for Mistress Curtis would have stood on ceremony in the dungeon of the Inquisition. Presently my lady came back to her own chamber where we were sitting. "Katherine is below, sweet!" said she. I rose to go, but she detained me. "She hath brought a guest with her—an Englishman who has come over with great news." Somehow—I know not how—I saw it all in an instant. I burst from her detaining grasp, flew down the stairs, and the next minute was in my husband's arms. Yes, it was Walter himself—thin, gray-headed, worn, but yet mine own true love. I would have known him any where changed as he was. I asked no questions. I was not oven surprised to see him. There he was and that was enough for me. When we had come to ourselves a little, he told us his story. He had been left for dead in the crisis of the fever, and the turnkey's wife really believed she was telling the truth. When she returned to the prison, however, and sought the body to do for it some last decent offices, she found that Walter still lived, though the life was hardly perceptible. She had never forgotten what I had done for their child, and taking counsel with my husband, they procured a rough coffin, and removing Walter in it as if for burial, they took him to a secret nook, where the woman nursed him, pretending he was a brother of her own, who had taken the fever while waiting on the prisoners. Walter lay long in extreme weakness, and longer still before his guardians judged it safe for him to try to escape. At last, however, he adventured it, and got away in a French vessel, whose master was a Huguenot. He had learned of our whereabouts by means of that secret intelligence, which, as I have said, exists among the reformed all over Europe, and after many wanderings and trials, he had made his way to Wesel.