“What would your mamma say, if you refused to kiss poor Aunt Adelaide? Come, that is better,” as Joyce advanced, timidly. “Why what a thin, sickly-looking child it is,” regarding the sweet little face before her rather critically; “I should hardly have thought,” speaking half to herself, “that Violet would have had such a plain child.” I was indignant at this; for everyone thought Joyce had a lovely little face, though it was rather too thin and grave. “Excuse me, Mrs. Markham,” I observed, hastily, “but Joyce is a very forward child, and understands all that is said before her,” for it was hard that our pet should meet with such a cold reception. Mrs. Markham regarded me with a supercilious stare; she evidently thought I was taking a liberty with her in venturing to remonstrate, but I took no notice, and prudently restrained myself. I felt, even at that first moment, an unaccountable dislike to Mrs. Markham. Most people would have pronounced her very handsome, in spite of her sallow complexion and thin lips, but a certain hardness in her expression repelled me, as it repelled Joyce. Her dark eyes regarded one so coldly; there was such hauteur and indifference in her manners; and then the metallic harshness of her voice! “How could she be Mrs. Morton’s sister?” I thought, as I recalled the sweet graciousness, the yielding softness, that made my dear mistress so universally beloved. (_To be continued._) CHRISTMAS IN THE GERMAN FATHERLAND. In the days of my youth it was my good fortune to have letters of introduction to some German friends of our family, and to be invited to spend the winter with them in their charming country house at the foot of the Riesengebirge.[1] It was the 24th of December, and bitterly cold, when I emerged from the railway carriage upon the platform of a small country station, and was taken into friendly possession by a vivacious little dark-eyed baroness and her tall, flaxen-haired son, who, with many fears that I must be nearly frozen by my long journey from Berlin, wrapped me in an extra fur and supplied me with a third veil before allowing me to encounter the keen outer air and a long sledge drive. To drive in a sledge at all was to me a novel and delightful experience, and the sledge to which I was now conducted was particularly pretty, with its body of light carved wood, its fur rugs lined with crimson, its pair of cream-coloured Russian ponies, with their harness studded with silver knobs, and arches of silver bells over their heads; and when once we were all warmly ensconced among the cushions and wrappers, and were gliding with noiseless swiftness over the well-kept sledge-way, it seemed to me that sledging was the very acme of luxurious motion, and I felt almost sorry when Baron Max checked his ponies to point out the high tower, now close at hand, which he said formed part of the main building of his home.