“And don’t care—­so long as it’s for Francie.  And yet you are always lecturing me on my extravagance!”

“Oh, well, it’s Christmas-time,” Mangan said; “and I confess I like Christmas and all its ways.  I do.  I seem to feel the general excitement throughout the country tingling in me too; I like to see the children eagerly delighted, and the houses decorated with evergreens, and the old folk pleased and happy with the enthusiasm of the youngsters.  If I’ve got to drink an extra glass of port, I’m there; if it’s Sir Roger de Coverley, I’m there; I’ll do anything to add to the general Schwaermerei.  What the modern litterateur thinks it fine to write about Christmas being all sham sentiment is simply insufferable bosh.  Christmas isn’t in the least bit played out—­though the magazinist may be, or may pretend to be.  I think it’s a grand thing to have a season for sending good wishes, for recollection of absent friends, for letting the young folk kick up their heels.  I say, Linn, I hope there’s going to be some sunlight down there.  I am longing to see a holly-tree in the open air—­the green leaves and scarlet berries glittering in the sunlight.  Oh, I can tell you an autumn session of Parliament is a sickening thing—­when the interminable speeches and wranglings drag on and on until you think they’re going to tumble over into Christmas-day itself.  There’s fog in your brain as well as in your throat, and you seem to forget there ever was an outer world; you get listless and resigned, and think you’ve lived all your life in darkness.  Well, just a glimmer of sunshine, that’s all I bargain for—­just a faint glimmer—­and a sight of the two holly-trees by the gate of the doctor’s house.”

What intoxication had got into the head of this man?  Whither had fled his accustomed indifference and indolence, his sardonic self-criticism?  He was like a school-boy off for the holidays.  He kept looking out of the window—­with persistent hope of the gray sky clearing.  He was impatient of the delay at the various stations.  And when at length they got out and found the doctor’s trap awaiting them, and proceeded to get up the long and gradual incline that leads to Winstead village, he observed that the fat old pony, if he were lent for a fortnight to a butcher, would find it necessary to improve his pace.

When they reached the doctor’s house and entered, they found that only the old lady was at home; the doctor had gone to visit a patient; Miss Francie was, as usual, away among her young convalescents.

“It has been a busy time for Francie,” Mrs. Moore said.  “She has been making so many different things for them.  And I don’t like to hear her sewing-machine going so late at night.”

“Then why do you let her do it?” Lionel said, in his impetuous way.  “Why don’t you get in somebody to help her?  Look here, I’ll pay for that.  You call in a seamstress to do all that sewing, and I’ll give her a sovereign a week.  Why should Francie have her eyes ruined?”