Of late years the Challoners had kept Christmas after their own fashion. They had often been joined by one or two stray young people, teachers or students, who were living in lodgings. But they had had two regular guests. One of these, Miss Latimer, had been governess to Florence and Lucy in their girlhood. She used to go to the Brands for Christmas when they were first married and were not quite so showy as they had since become. Then Florence Brand had turned her over to Lucy, saying that she thought their “crowd” was too much for the old lady, “it only tired and excited her—she was such an intellectual person, there was much more enjoyment for her in a quiet talk with just one or two thoughtful people.” That was true, and Miss Latimer was delighted to get Lucy’s invitation, and to accept Mrs. Brand’s excuses and explanation. But the shrewd old lady knew well enough that it was a truth which Mrs. Brand would not have discovered if Miss Latimer’s dresses had been newer and richer, and if she had driven up in a brougham instead of coming to the street corner in a humble ’bus. The other regular visitor was he whom Lucy had once named to Florence as “Charlie’s great chum, Wilfrid Somerset.” He was a man of about Charles Challoner’s own age. They had been at school together. Then Charlie had gone, brave and bright and winsome, out into the world, and Wilfrid Somerset had retired to a hermitage in the heart of London. For he had been afflicted almost from birth with one of those dire disasters which set a sufferer apart from his fellows. His walk was a writhing struggle and distortion; his sad, worn face, though pathetically fine when in perfect repose, was convulsed even by the effort of speech. Yet a beautiful soul and a noble intellect dwelt in his wrung frame. Providentially he had a small independency, and was free to work only for pure love’s sake. He had made a high mark in philology, and was a poet of no mean order, though neither those who profited by his researches nor those who sang his songs had ever heard his name or seen his face. Not unnaturally, he was morbidly sensitive. He had apartments in an old house in a deserted corner of the older London, and was rarely out of doors by daylight save when he took an early-morning stroll in the sunlight, which fell subdued on the dreary little square where he lived—a square where nobody else ever walked. He had many correspondents, but few visitors, and he visited absolutely nowhere but at the little house with the verandah. His visits were generally evening visits. The eyes of his fellows seemed to burn his very soul. Lucy had understood how to measure his great friendship when he dared to face the crowd at the docks that he might say good-bye to Charlie on board the Northern steamer.