“When all the city is happy and rejoicing! Can he not put aside his own happiness for a while and rejoice with every one else? We are going to keep Christmas for the Christ’s sake; we are going to honour the brave men who have done our country such honour; we are going, all of us, to think of our country and forget ourselves; and Leonard must take this very time to urge some bit of pleasure that will be his, and his only, that no one else must share----” “You forget me, mother.” “No. I am sure you are no party to anything that is so selfishly personal. I think you would put the general good, and the general happiness, before your own satisfaction.” Then Sappha answered, “I hope you judge me rightly, mother; and I will be very firm with Leonard. Yet he seems so miserable.” “He is nursing some silly idea that in some way or other he is being wronged. This notion blots all other ideas out of recognition; he is, as I said before, suffering from selfishness; and selfishness is the worst-tempered of all vices.” “At any rate, he is wretched. Come and speak to him, mother.” “No, I will not. I have other things to do. Of course he is wretched! he ought to be, for bad temper, fortunately, bites at both ends. My advice to you is, be a little cross yourself. Dear me! How tiresome men in love are!” To this last exclamation Sappha closed the door. She walked slowly downstairs, she lingered, she seemed unable to come to any decision. But in the midst of her uncertainty she listened to her heart, and what her heart said to her was this: “It can never be wrong to be kind.” So strengthened, and even counselled, by this suggestion, she went back to her lover. He was walking about the room in a fever of self-torment, and as the door opened he turned inquiringly. And it was the loveliest of Sapphas he saw. She met him in all her charms; her eyes had a sunny radiance, her mouth was all smiles, she looked as if there was not a care in the wide world--a healing, lovesome woman, wonderfully sweet and comforting. “Dearest one,” she said softly, “sit here beside me. Let me have your hand, Leonard, and listen to me. My mother says this is the very worst time in all the year to speak to my father. He is so full of public affairs, and you know, just now, they ought to come before any private ones. Ought they not, dear?” “Yes, of course, but----” “Well, there can be no ‘but’ for a few days. Christmas is Christ’s feast--we cannot presume to put ourselves before Christmas; and then come all the honours, and feasts, and public rejoicings for our dear country. You would not put yourself, nor even Sappha, before America, her honour and freedom? And so I think, with mother, we must wait until after the New Year before we say a word about ourselves. Dear, a few months, a few weeks ago, you were so happy with my assurance only. Is it less sweet now than then?”