“Do you know, in all this blessed place, I can’t find a copy of Mrs. Hemans’s poems; and I wanted you to read ’The Arab to his Horse’—­is that the title?—­at my school-treat to-morrow.  They would all understand that.  Well, we must get something else; for we’re to make a show of being educational and instructive before the romping begins.  I think the ‘Highland Schottische’ is the best of any for children who haven’t learned dancing; they can all jump about somehow—­and the music is inspiriting.  The vicar’s daughters are coming to hammer at the piano.  Oh, Mr. Mangan,” she continued, still appealing to him, “do you think you could tell them a thrilling folk-story?—­wouldn’t that be better?”

“Don’t you want me to do something, Francie?” said Lionel, perhaps a little hurt.

“Do you mean—­”

“The only thing I’m fit for—­I’ll sing them a song, if you like.  ’My Pretty Jane’—­no, that would hardly do—­’The Death of Nelson’ or ’Rule Britannia’—­”

“Wouldn’t there be rather a risk, Lionel?  If you were to miss your train—­and disappoint a great audience in London?” she said, gently.

“Oh, I’ll take my chance of that?  I’m used to it,” he said, “I’ll have Dick and the pony waiting outside.  Oh, yes, I’ll sing something for them.”

“It will be very kind of you,” she said.

And again, as they went to this or that cottage, to see that the small convalescent folk were afforded every possible means of holding high holiday (how fortunate they were as compared with thousands of similar unfortunates, shivering away the hopeless hours in dingy courts and alleys, gin clutching at every penny, that might have got food for their empty stomachs or rags for their poor shrunken limbs!), it was to Maurice Mangan that Francie chiefly talked, and, indeed, he seemed to know all about those patient little sufferers, and the time they had been down here, and when they might have to be sent back to London to make way for their successors.  There was also a question as to which of their toys they might be permitted to carry off with them.

“Oh, I wouldn’t deprive them of one,” Mangan said, distinctly.  “I’ve brought down a heap more this morning.”

“Again—­again?” she said, almost reproachfully; but the gentle gray eyes looked pleased, notwithstanding.

Well, that Christmas evening was spent in the doctor’s house with much quiet enjoyment; for the old people were proud to have their only son with them for so long a time; and Francie seemed glad to have the various labors of the day over; and Maurice Mangan, with quite unwonted zest, kept the talk flowing free.  Next morning was chiefly devoted to preparations for the big entertainment to be given in the school-room; and in due course Lionel redeemed his promise by singing no fewer than four songs—­at the shyly proffered request of the vicar’s pretty daughters; thereafter, leaving Maurice to conduct the gay proceedings to a close, he got out and jumped into the trap and was driven off to the station.  He arrived at the New Theatre in plenty of time; the odor of consumed gas was almost a shock to him, well as he was used to it, after the clear air of Winstead.