On this Christmas Eve the servants’ hall looked as cheerful a room as one could choose for a night’s revelry. Huge logs flamed and crackled in the wide old fireplace, and shone and sparkled on the whitewashed wall, which was glorified with garlands of holly and ivy, and lighted with numerous candles in tin sconces made for the occasion by the village blacksmith. Two long tables on trestles were spread with such a meal as a rustic child might see in some happy dream, but could scarcely hope to behold in sober reality. Such mountains of plum cake, such mighty piles of buns, such stacks of buttered toast, such crystal jars of ruby jam and amber marmalade! The guests had been invited for the hour of six, and, as the clock struck, they all came trooping in, with shining faces, and cheeks and noses cherry red, after their run through the lightly falling snow. It was not often that snow fell in this western world, and a snowstorm at Christmas was considered altogether pleasant and seasonable, an event for the children to rejoice at. Laura was ready to receive her young visitors, supported by Mr. Sampson and his sister, Celia Clare, and all the servants. Edward had promised to drop in later. He had no objection to distinguish himself by a comic reading, but he had no idea of sharing all the fatigue of the entertainment. Mr. and Mrs. Clare were to come in the course of the evening to see their small parishioners enjoying themselves. The tea party was a great success. Celia worked nobly. While Mrs. Treverton and Miss Sampson poured out the tea, this vivacious damsel flew hither and thither with plates of cake, spread innumerable slices of bread and jam, tied the strings of a score of pinafores, filled every plate the instant it was empty, and provided at every turn for the pleasure of the revellers, who sat in a happy silence--stolid, emotionless, stuffing automatically. ‘You’d hardly think they were enjoying themselves intensely, would you?’ whispered Celia, coming to Laura for a fresh supply of tea, ‘but I know they are, because they all breathe so hard. If this was a gathering of the county families, you might think it a failure; but silence in this case means ecstasy.’ At the stroke of seven the tables were being cleared, while Celia, in wild spirits, ran about after the smiling housemaids, crying, ‘more light, ye knaves, and turn the tables up.’ Then came a merry hour at ‘Blind Man’s Buff’ and ‘Thread my Needle,’ and the silent tea party grew clamorous as a flight of rooks at sunset. At eight Mr. and Mrs. Clare arrived, followed a little later by Edward, who sauntered in with a somewhat languid air, as if he had not quite made up his mind that he ought to be there. He came straight to Laura, who had just returned from a stolen half-hour by her husband’s bedside. ‘What an uproar!’ he said. ‘I’ve come to keep my promise; but do you really think these little animals will care for the “Jackdaw of Rheims”?’