The scene in the hall, thronged with its brilliant assemblage of guests, many of whom wore, as Peggy did, the costumes in which they had appeared in the tableaux, suggested to Mr Musgrave's mind a scene from an opera. The broad oak staircase, leading up from either side and ending in a gallery connecting both, was crowded with young people. Peggy had joined one of the groups on the stairs, a group composed largely of young men, whose sallies seemed to be affording her considerable amusement. When the punch was served round and every one, glass in hand, waited for the striking of the hour, looking up to where she stood, leaning against the baluster in her emerald velvet robe, her round white arm upraised holding its glass aloft, Mr Musgrave met her eyes fully as the hour chimed forth, and, meeting them, was conscious that she was looking towards him deliberately, with a kindly smile parting her lips. She leaned down towards him, and, putting the glass to her lips, drank to him. John Musgrave made a slight inclination of his head and drank to her in return. Then, scarce knowing what his companion was saying, amid the hum of talk and laughter, and the curious abstraction of his thoughts, he observed sententiously: "There is a sort of dignity in these old customs. I do not think I have ever enjoyed a Christmas party more." And Miss Simpson, who had just remarked to him on the want of respect for the day which this hilarity betokened, regarded him with a wondering reproach, and answered flatly: "It is very gay, certainly--but--dignified! Do you really think so?" CHAPTER SIXTEEN. The vicar, as he took off his surplice after the early celebration on Christmas morning, and turned to hang it on its peg, became aware that Robert had entered the vestry, and was hovering about, busying himself unnecessarily, moving things ostentatiously and replacing them in the same positions, and watching the vicar furtively meanwhile, as a man might whose conscience is not altogether free from reproach. The vicar looked at his sexton with as much severity as he was capable of assuming towards Robert, whose failings were sufficiently familiar to him to have ceased to appear disproportionately grave. But Robert merited rebuke, and was apparently expecting it. In anticipation of reproof he attempted propitiation. "Never seed a bigger congregation than we 'ad for 'Oly Commoonion this morning, sir," he observed. "Folks don't turn up most places like they do at our church." Some of the credit for the large congregation he appropriated to himself. The vicar finished disrobing, and then faced deliberately round. "I am at least relieved," he said, "that you were capable of putting in an appearance." "Oh ay," Robert answered cheerfully. "I've never failed these thirty year--though there 'ave been times, I allow, when I'd rather a laid a-bed. But Hannah sees to that." "I heard," the vicar said gravely, "that you were very drunk last night, Robert."