“Poor fly!” Upon the authority, then, of Alice, who holds the position of Editor-in-chief of the Love-department of this work, I may assure the reader that by the time that one week had passed over the heads of our party at Elmington this was the state of things: Mary was sure that the Don loved her, and believed that she was fancy-free. The Don was aware, no doubt, of the state of his own affections, and was, we will suppose,—for there is no way of knowing,—in perplexing doubt as to the condition of Mary’s. Alice knew more than either of them; while upon me, the teller of this tale, their various nods and becks and wreathéd smiles had been entirely lost. I knew no more of what was going forward than Zip did of the amours of Uncle Toby and the Widow Wadman. CHAPTER XXVII. Christmas Eve had come, and, as usual, the holidays had been officially ushered in by a noble fire of hickory logs. A deep mass of ruddy coals was glowing upon the vast hearth of the Hall. Upon these had been cast a hamper of chosen oysters. The guests (it was the way at Elmington) were expected to rake them out, every man for himself and sweetheart, which gave a delightful informality to the proceedings. As soon as the roasting was well under weigh, two enormous, ancestral bowls, one of eggnog, the other of apple-toddy, were brought in. Later, there was to be dancing. A dozen or so of our neighbors and friends were in the habit of dropping in on us, on these occasions, to help us make merry. “And now, grandfather,” said I, “it is time to bring out the old Guarnerius.” “The old what?” asked the Don, quickly. “His old Guarnerius violin; Guarnerius was a celebrated maker of violins,” I explained. What was the matter with Charley? Why did he purse up his mouth and give that inaudible whistle? “Ah,—and Mr. Whacker has one of these old instruments?” “Yes; and he is as tender with it as a mother with her first-born. He allows it to be brought out only during the Christmas holidays; though he used to let Monsieur Villemain play on it. The genuine ones are very rare and dear,” I added. Another silent whe-e-ew from Charley. “Oh, I should suppose so,” replied the Don. “What did you say your Guarnerius cost you, grandfather?” That was a question I asked every Christmas Eve, when the violin was brought out; and always with the same result. “_That_,” replied the old gentleman, smiling and addressing the Don, “is a piece of information I have never given to my friends. You see, when I was a young man—” We all knew what was coming,—the story that my grandfather always told to strangers when his Guarnerius was brought out for inspection. It was rather a long story,—how he took lessons from a very promising young artist, who took to gambling and drinking, and had, therefore, to sell his beloved violin to his pupil,—and how the young man grieved at giving it up, etc., etc., etc.