Both were silent for some time; and Edward tenderly stroked the beautiful head bent down beside him. “Nay, look up, Marion,” he said; “I am quite well now, love, and you must not be so sad.” “I am not sad,” said Marion, raising her large eyes, and smiling gently. “I was thinking how grateful I am that you are better, and how happy this Christmas would be if you were but reconciled to your father.” “Every house has its spectre, Marion, and this haunts ours. I believe one always feels any kind of estrangement from those near to us most powerfully on days like these. They seem to have a strange mysterious power of calling up old recollections and early affections!” “Only those which ought never to be broken come at this holy time,” said Marion; “the gentle thoughts it brings with it seem to me like the soft warning of angel voices,--to be at peace ere it is too late! I wish you would read them so, and write to your mother again: she is of a gentler nature; but they must--yes, they both must, long to see you again!--Oh, if I could but persuade you!” she continued, with emotion: “we know not what a day may bring forth--even to the youngest and strongest among us; and Mrs. Hope says they both seem to ‘age’ very much. How deeply you would grieve through life if----” “Oh, Marion, say no more!” exclaimed her husband in an agitated voice, “it is that thought which so constantly haunts me. For myself, I could forget all; but their unkindness to you--to you, of whom they ought to have been so proud; I cannot forget that!” “Do not think of it,” said Marion, in a soothing tone; “we must not quarrel with people because they are unable to see things in the same light as ourselves. They knew very little of me, and thought, I dare say, that I prevented your being much happier with a wealthier bride: besides, they may love me yet when you have made your peace, as I know you will,” said she, smiling. “Remember, it is to your parents that you bend, and I never can feel happy while you are as a stranger to them. I suppose it would be my turn next,” said she, with her musical laugh, “if I were to venture to oppose your wishes, or to say a few angry words.” “Marion!” said her husband reproachfully. “Well, what security have I,” was the playful retort, “over one who could be contented under such circumstances? You owe to them infinitely more than you do to me--they loved you for years and years before I did. Oh, Edward! your own heart must tell you more than I could ever speak.” “We will not discuss the subject any further, dear Marion,” said he, and his voice faltered. “Sing to me, will you? The evening never seems perfect without a song from you.” Marion sang the following lines in a rich and lovely voice:-- THE SPIRIT’S WHISPERINGS.