‘Isn’t he a beast!’ says Betty, with honest meaning. ‘And it would have done so nicely for old Miss Blake. You see, she has sent me one, though I had quite forgotten all about her. I must say Dom is downright malignant. I suppose I’ll have to buy her one now. All the rest of mine have “Happy Christmas” on them, and it does look badly to send a card like that for New Year’s Day. Dom’s has both Christmas and New Year on it, and of course it would have suited beautifully. Oh, Susan’—pouncing on a card in Susan’s hand—‘what a beauty, and nothing written on the back. You will let me have it for Miss Blake, won’t you?’ ‘No, no,’ says Susan hastily. She takes it back quickly from Betty. A little sharp unwelcome blush has sprung into her cheeks. ‘Who is it from—James?’ ‘James! Are you mad?’ says Susan. ‘Fancy my caring for a card from James! Why, here is his, and you can have it to make ducks and drakes of, if you like.’ ‘But that, then?’ questions Betty, with some pardonable curiosity, pointing at the card denied her. ‘It is from Mr. Crosby. Don’t you think, Betty,’ the treacherous colour growing deeper, ‘that one should treasure even a card sent by one who has been so good to Bonnie?’ ‘I do—I do indeed,’ says Betty earnestly. ‘And, after all, one would treasure a card from most people. Even this’—flicking Dom’s somewhat contemptuously—‘I’ll have to treasure, as I can’t send it away to anyone. Susan, I wonder if Ella has got any cards besides those we sent her? Shall we go to her this afternoon and ask her?’ ‘I don’t suppose she can have got any,’ says Susan thoughtfully. ‘You know she keeps herself so aloof from the world. She had yours and mine certainly, and Carew’s.’ ‘Did Carew send her one?’ ‘Didn’t you know?’ Susan laughs a little. ‘I didn’t think it was a secret. I went into his room yesterday, and saw an envelope directed to Ella, and said something about it; but I really quite thought he had told you, too.’ ‘Well, he didn’t! After dinner, Susan, let us run down and see her, and show her our cards.’ ‘Oh no!’ says Susan, shrinking a little. ‘If she had none of her own, it might make her feel—feel lonely!’ ‘That’s true,’ says Betty. CHAPTER LI. ‘Who would trust slippery chance?’ But, after all, Ella has a card of her own, that is not from Susan, or Betty, or Carew. Some hours ago the post brought it to her, and she has gone out into the garden, that is now lovely in its white garments, with the red berries of the holly-trees peeping through the snow, to read it and look at it again. The walks have been swept clear by Denis, who has come down from Dublin to spend a long (a very long) and happy Christmas week with his wife. A third person in Mrs. Denis’s kitchen and private apartments might have questioned about the happiness, but that it is a lively week goes beyond all doubt.