The great season of the Church was on this occasion quite one of the old style, such as would have delighted the heart of Dickens. That is, it had plenty of snow and holly and mistletoe peace-on-earth, good-will-to-men and such like traditional things which had to do with the Holy Birth. The undulating hills around Belstone were clothed in spotless white, and the ancient trees in the park of the Inderwicks stood up gaunt and bare and black amidst the chilly waste. Coals and blankets, food and drink were bestowed on the villagers by the gentry around, who suddenly seemed to recollect that Belstone existed, so that the poor had what Americans call “the time of their lives.” Mr. Fuller also behaved philanthropically, although he was by no means rich, and the sole person who did not act in the traditionally charitable manner was Mr. Randolph Sorley. He said bluntly that he had enough to do to look after himself, and gave his blessing instead of more substantial gifts. As to Marie, she never had a single penny, which she could call her own, and lamented that poverty, and Sorley’s niggardly ways as her guardian, prevented her from obeying the kind dictates of her heart. “But when I am of age and have my money,” she informed Alan after church on Christmas Day, “I shall make everyone happy.” “You have made me happy anyhow,” replied Fuller, enjoying the stolen moment which they had obtained by evading Sorley, “so nothing else matters.” “You greedy boy,” laughed Marie, patting his cheek, “you are not the only person in the world I have to consider. My uncle is my uncle.” “And your uncle is your guardian,” said Fuller grimly. “I wish he were not, my dearest, for the course of our true love will never run smooth so long as he has a say in the matter. I don’t like him.” “You must like him to-night when he comes to dinner at the vicarage,” said Marie with alarm. “If you aren’t agreeable, Alan, he will be so unpleasant.” “I am always agreeable, in my father’s house,” said Alan stiffly, and then he kissed away her fears. “There, dear, don’t worry; I am a most diplomatic person, I assure you.” Marie agreed, for everything that Alan did was right in her eyes, and afterwards ran away across the snow to join her uncle, who was looking for her. Alan returned to the vicarage to find his mother much exercised in her mind over the Christmas dinner, and had to console her as usual. Every year Mrs. Fuller doubted the success of the meal, and every year it proved to be all that could be desired. Alan reminded her of this. “My dear mother, you have never had a failure yet. To-night we shall have a very jolly meal.” “I hope so,” sighed the vicar’s wife, “but I confess that I am not quite at rest in my mind about the pudding.” “And there may be something wrong with the mince pies?” “It’s very likely there will be, since the oven doesn’t heat properly.” “And the roast beef will not be up to the mark?”