'It was very good, Prim. It is good now to think of. Yes, it does feel like Christmas, as you say. All Mill Hollow is happy to-night. No! I'm too hasty. The Charteris men cannot be happy; for they don't know what is to become of them when their Christmas beef is gone!' 'What _will_ become of them, Dane?' said Primrose, looking very anxious. 'There is no hope for them, except in the mills going on with work.' 'And is there any hope of that?' said Mrs. Coles. 'Not unless somebody buys them off Charteris's hands.' 'Perhaps you'll do that.' 'I should hardly think that would be prudent,' said Dr. Maryland. 'Dane's responsibilities are large as it is.' 'Miss Kennedy, perhaps?' suggested Mrs. Coles. 'Hasn't Dane touched your heart for the mill people, Miss Kennedy?' She turned for a better look into Hazel's face; but Rollo interfered again. 'You forget she is under guardians, Prudentia. What would Mr. Falkirk say?' 'How comes it Mr. Falkirk is not here?—to-night of all nights!' said Dr. Arthur suddenly. He was sitting by Wych Hazel, and she answered pretty steadily, though certain intuitions were waking up concerning _his_ face. 'Mr. Falkirk wrote that he could not come back for Christmas,— nor perhaps until spring.' 'He does not take the same pleasure in it that Prim does,' Rollo remarked. The dinner bugle, and the opened door, cut short all further comment upon Mr. Falkirk. Wych Hazel went in upon Dr. Maryland's arm, with a strange feeling of its being the last time,— the last of _her_ entertainments, which had been so pretty and popular. So she felt when in her place at the head of the table, with Dr. Maryland on her right and Dr. Arthur on her left. There were flowers enough here, the table was in a glow. Not stiff baskets and made-up bouquets, but cut flowers in every sort of dish and arrangement for which there was room; from the low narrow border of violets and rosebuds which fenced off the plates, to parian shells and fairy glasses and a bewildering pyramid in the centre. The very candlesticks were wreathed. No gardener's work; those who had seen such before knew the touch of Wych Hazel's own fingers. She hardly knew it herself; and eyes that watched her might catch now and then a dreamy look at the flowers,— wondering if she had arranged them!—if she should ever arrange any more. Besides this the table was bountiful of course with the old Chickaree silver and china and glass; and by each plate, on the rich damask, lay a separate, individual knot of flowers, with a scroll around it, naming the guest. These were culled flowers; but Dr. Arthur took notice that Wych Hazel did not even handle her own, but left it where it lay.