Christmas came, and New Year's Day, and her birthday, and his. They celebrated all of these festivals in company. For New Year's Eve, one of Christine's Normal College classmates had invited her to a party. Elias naturally was her cavalier. He suffered torments indescribable, as she whirled through the waltz on the arm of another man--he could not dance, himself; had never learned how, poor fellow--but when, from the corner in which he was sulking alone, he saw that the heel of her slipper had broken off, and that her partner was holding that heel in his hand, and inspecting it with curious eyes, he could no longer contain himself. Another man to profane with his touch the heel of Christine's slipper! He advanced upon the couple, scowling savagely; and addressing the young man: “Give me that,” he commanded gruffly. He got hold of it, and stuck it into his pocket. Christine shot dagger-glances at him. On their way home, in the carriage, she scolded him roundly for his jealousy and his bad manners; but before they separated, she had forgiven him; and the padded carriage walls had witnessed a very pretty reconciliation. That night he sat up till daybreak, writing her a letter, very penitent, very affectionate, very voluminous. “That we should have begun the New Year with a quarrel!” was its remorseful burden. At eight o'clock he dispatched it by a messenger. Yet he knew that at ten o'clock that very forenoon she would be ready to receive him in proper person. But ten o'clock! Two mortal hours! It seemed years and years away.