“Good evening, Ma’am,” said Craggs. “You look charmingly. Your—Miss—your sister, Miss Marion, is she——”
“Oh she’s quite well, Mr. Craggs.”
“Yes—I—is she here?” asked Craggs.
“Here! Don’t you see her yonder? Going to dance?” said Grace.
Mr. Craggs put on his spectacles to see the better; looked at her through them, for some time; coughed; and put them, with an air of satisfaction, in their sheath again, and in his pocket.
Now the music struck up, and the dance commenced. The bright fire crackled and sparkled, rose and fell, as though it joined the dance itself, in right good fellowship. Sometimes it roared as if it would make music too. Sometimes it flashed and beamed as if it were the eye of the old room: it winked too, sometimes, like a knowing patriarch, upon the youthful whisperers in corners. Sometimes it sported with the holly-boughs; and, shining on the leaves by fits and starts, made them look as if they were in the cold winter night again, and fluttering in the wind. Sometimes its genial humour grew obstreperous, and passed all bounds; and then it cast into the room, among the twinkling feet, with a loud burst, a shower of harmless little sparks, and in its exultation leaped and bounded, like a mad thing, up the broad old chimney.
Another dance was near its close, when Mr. Snitchey touched his partner, who was looking on, upon the arm.
Mr. Craggs started, as if his familiar had been a spectre.
“Is he gone?” he asked.
“Hush! He has been with me,” said Snitchey, “for three hours and more. He went over everything. He looked into all our arrangements for him, and was very particular indeed. He—Humph!”