And as she spoke more and more tenderly, aiding her words with loving glances and the light pressure of her little hand, softer thoughts flowed in, and the enchanter, love, usurped the place of every evil passion. Leonard finally promised to be happy, and to let others be happy; and he kissed this agreement on her lips. Alas! “Man, only, clogs with care his happiness, And while he should enjoy his part of bliss, With thoughts of what might be, destroys what is.” DRYDEN. And when Sappha had watched and smiled him out of sight she turned in with a sigh and a sudden depression of spirit. She had won Leonard to her wish and way, but anger is always self-immolation, and for a time at least Leonard had fallen in her esteem, for she was compelled to disapprove of much that he had said; and the more we judge, the less we love. The whole affair seemed trifling to Mrs. Bloommaert; it was an annoyance in the midst of events of far more importance, and had to be got out of the way--that was all. But to Sappha it was different. She had forgiven Leonard, but unhappy is the lover whom a woman forgives; and Sappha was herself quite conscious that some virtue had gone out of her life. It was not a little event to Sappha, for there are no little events with the heart. Fortunately Annette and St. Ange came in, and Sappha was compelled to meet them on the level of their joyous temper. They had finished decorating madame’s house, and their arms were full of box and feathery hemlock and the blooms of many-coloured everlasting flowers and great bunches of the vermilion berries of the darling pyracantha shrub. They were tingling with the Christmas joy, and their ringing laughter, their jokes and snatches of song, their quips and mock reproofs of their own mirth, filled the house with the electric atmosphere of Merry Christmas. Negroes were chattering among them, raising ladders, and running messages, and the tapping of the little hammers, and the cries of admiration as the room grew to a fairy bower, was far better than the music of many instruments--it was the music of the heart. “We ought to have had holly,” said St. Ange. “There is always holly in Christmas decorations.” “The pyracantha berries are just as pretty,” answered Mrs. Bloommaert, “and the pyracantha is a rapid grower, and can be cut with impunity--even with profit to the bush; but to cut holly! that is rather a cruel business. It is almost as bad as flinging the Christmas tree into the streets when it has done its whole duty.” “But, aunt Carlita, what else can be done? It is too big to keep, and----” “I will tell you. In Germany, the home of the Christmas tree, they give it house room until Shrove Tuesday, then it is formally burned.” “Well,” said Sapphira, “we are not going to have a Christmas tree this year; my father likes far better the _Yule Klap_.” “What an outlandish name!” exclaimed St. Ange.