It was some time ere Doya could venture to break the awe and quiet of that scene by summoning her children. It seemed as if she had parted from every earthly trouble, as she knelt there alone, and pressed to her heart the token of her husband’s repentance; as she knelt there, alone with nature’s sublimest voices speaking to her soul; but slowly her thoughts came back to life and earth, and at her call the boat glided into the cave again. Then, as the boys rowed slowly homewards, Doya told them the end of the story. They had guessed it already, but they were not prepared for the surprise which she had in store—the reading of their father’s parting words. That took away almost all the sorrow. Under the moonlit sky of Yule, with Yule stars looking down like eyes of forgiving love, and Yule zephyrs winnowing by like the rustle of angel-wings, when they hurry to earth with Christmas messages of peace and good will, of mercy and pardon; with Yule frost glittering upon the heath, Doya and her children returned to their home; and when Rassmie clung to her neck, and Hermann’s head nestled on her bosom, while Tronda’s sweet voice whispered, “You have _us_, mother,” Doya’s sorely tried heart was comforted. * * * * * Just as Cousin Cyntha concluded her story, the clock struck, and then a strange stare of astonishment stole over every face. What the hour was it is not necessary to state, but a general stirring among the company told the fact that all of them were of opinion it was high time to be thinking of returning to their homes. But while glasses were being handed round, Old Merry took the opportunity of arresting attention; and, amid cries of “Hurrah, bravo! A speech! Old Merry, a speech!” got upon his legs, and after polishing his bald pate and adjusting his specs, according to time-honoured usage, he thus delivered himself:— “LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, MY DEAR YOUNG PEOPLE,