The post brought him several cards and congratulations, and among the rest a large envelope addressed in the handwriting of Tom Whitwell, which he opened before the others. As soon as he saw the nature of its contents the swift colour dyed his face and his pulse quickened. The envelope contained the deed to which his thoughts had often referred, and a note, which read thus: “DEAR JOHN,—There need be no ceremony between cousins, and so I hope you will let me ask your acceptance of the accompanying Christmas gift, with my love and best wishes. This is a day, you know, when nobody feels vexed with anybody else, and Christian humility fills all hearts, even those of young men. I rejoice, and so does father, in the splendid things you are doing on your farm, and we want to have a little share in them. Dear old John, you will be good, and let us have our hearts’ desire, because of all the gracious associations of the season, and because of the love of your two friends, Tom and her father.” John Dallington went to church in the morning with his mother, and had early dinner with her and Mr. William Hunter afterward. Then he wrote a cheque which was due to Mr. Whitwell on that day, and sealed it up together with the deed. “Mother,” he said, “I shall ride over to uncle’s and take tea at Hornby this afternoon, if you have no objection.” “None whatever, John. Give my love to them all. And perhaps the girls will come over and spend to-morrow with us.” “I will ask them.” Tom expected her cousin, but she could scarcely be quite her old natural self. Mr. Whitwell at once gave John to understand that anything special which he might have to say must be said to Tom and not to him. Tom gave him no opportunity. She soon rallied her powers of merriment, and by the aid of her sisters a pleasant afternoon was spent. John did not wish to prolong his stay, for, however delightful the company of his cousins might be, he was hungering for the few minutes which he had promised himself should be passed with Margaret as the crowning joy of the day. But neither did he intend to leave until he had put that deed safely back into Tom’s hands. About seven o’clock he said, in desperation, “Tom, may I have the honour of a five minutes’ serious talk with you?” “Certainly; it will give me great pleasure to be as serious as even you can desire.” “Where can it be? May we go into the library, uncle?” “Oh, no!” said Tom, in frightened tones, “please let it be here, so that my people can sympathise with me if the seriousness should deepen into solemnity.” But John offered his arm and led her away, amid the significant glances of her sisters. She was the first to speak when the door closed upon them, and they stood facing each other before the fire. “You are not going to make a fuss, John, are you? Please don’t! There is nothing whatever to be said.”