In various manners was the succeeding day passed by the different members of Mr. Hope’s household. He himself was absent till dinner-time, busy in holding consultations with parliamentary friends. Why should he remember that on that day a Saviour was born into the world? He never considered that he needed one! Lady Fitzwigram called in her carriage for Mrs. Hope, to drive her to a distant church to hear some very famous preacher. Arrayed in all the pomp of Vanity Fair, her mind full of the world, its follies, its ambition, the lady departed to kneel in the house of God, and call herself a miserable sinner! Clementina would have accompanied her mother, but for the disfigurement of her face. Till the bruise had disappeared, and the cut become healed, she could not endure to let herself be seen. So she shut herself up in the drawing-room, with her feet on the fender, listening sadly to the cheerful chime of “the church-going bell,” which brought no thought of joy to her heart. Ernest came into the room, Christmas sunshine on his face. He had not seen his cousin that morning until now. “A happy Christmas to you, Clemmy, and a joyful New-year.” No look of pleasure on her part responded to the greeting; but she gave the usual answer—“I wish the same to you.” “Thank you. A happy Christmas! I have it. The new year!—ah! how strange it is to think all that a new year may bring!” “The new year can bring to you nothing so good as the old one has done,” said Clementina. “This year has brought much to me indeed,” replied Ernest, thoughtfully. “The Bible—my first knowledge of Mr. Ewart—my brother.” “Oh, your estate, your title!” exclaimed Clementina. “The new year can raise you no higher.” “Only in one way, perhaps.” “And what is that way?” Ernest did not hear the question of the young lady; his thoughts had wandered to the white marble monument in the church near Fontonore. When we stand on the verge of a new year, and look on the curtain which hides from us the mysterious future, what reflecting mind but considers the possibility that the opening year may to him be the last? To the Christian Pilgrim alone that thought brings no feeling of gloom. “Are you going to church with us, cousin?” said Ernest, rousing himself from his meditations. “You had only to look at me to answer your own question,” replied the young lady, pettishly. “What could take me to church, with my forehead plastered up and such a yellow mark under my eye?” Ernest could not help thinking that if she went to church to worship God, and not to be seen of man, there was nothing to keep her away now. But to have expressed his thoughts aloud would have been only to irritate; and the Christian who would lead another to the Lord must be cautious to avoid giving unnecessary offence. There is a time when it is our duty to speak, and a time when it is our wisdom to be silent.