The season of Christmas passed more cheerfully than Ellen had dared to hope.  The scene was entirely changed; never before had they passed a Christmas anywhere but at Oakwood, and that simple circumstance prevented the void in that domestic circle from being so sadly felt.  That Herbert was in the thoughts of all his family, that it was an effort for them to retain the cheerfulness which in them was ever the characteristic of the season, we will not deny, but affliction took not from the calm beauty which ever rested round Mr. Hamilton’s hearth.  All appeared as if an even more hallowed and mellowed light was cast around them; for it displayed, even more powerfully than when unalloyed prosperity was their portion, the true beauty of the religious character.  Herbert and Mary were not lost to them; they were but removed to another sphere, that eternal Home, to which all who loved them looked with an eye of faith.

Sir George Wilmot was the only guest at Richmond during the Christmas season, but so long had he been a friend of the family and of Lord Delmont’s, when Mrs. Hamilton was a mere child, that he could scarcely be looked on in the light of a mere guest.  The kind old man had sorrowed deeply for Herbert’s death, had felt himself attracted even more irresistibly to his friends in their sorrow than even in their joy, and so constantly had he been invited to make his stay at Mr. Hamilton’s residence, wherever that might be, that he often declared he had now no other home.  The tale of Edward’s peril interested him much; he would make Ellen repeat it over and over again, and admire the daring rashness which urged the young sailor not to defer his return to his commander, even though a storm was threatening around him; and when Mr. Hamilton related the story of Ellen’s fortitude in bearing as she did this painful suspense, the old man would conceal his admiration of his young friend under a joke, and laughingly protest she was as fitted to be a gallant sailor as her noble brother.

On the character of the young heir of Oakwood the death of his brother appeared to have made an impression, which neither time nor circumstances could efface.  He was not outwardly sad, but his volatile nature appeared departed.  He was no longer the same wild, boisterous youth, ever on the look-out for some change, some new diversion or practical joke, which had been his characteristics while Herbert lived.  A species of quiet dignity was now his own, combined with a devotedness to his parents, which before had never been so distinctly visible.  He had ever loved them, ever sought their happiness, their wishes in preference to his own.  Herbert himself had not surpassed him in filial love and reverence, but now, though his feelings were the same, their expression was different; cheerful and animated he still was, but the ringing laugh which had so often echoed through the halls of Oakwood had gone.  It seemed as if the death of a brother so beloved, had suddenly transformed Percy Hamilton from