No one who had stood amongst the little group at the top of the long table in Hallgrove Manor-house on this snowy Christmas morning could have doubted that the heart of Lionel Dale was true to the very core.
He was not alone amongst his poor parishioners. His guests had requested permission to see the two o'clock dinner-party in the refectory. Lydia affected to be especially anxious for this privilege.
"I long to see the dear things eating their Christmas plum-pudding," she said, with almost girlish enthusiasm.
Mr. Dale's parishioners did ample justice to the splendid Christmas fare provided for them.
Lydia Graham declared she had never witnessed anything that gave her half so much pleasure as this humble gathering.
"I would give up a whole season of fashionable dinner-parties for such a treat as this, Mr. Dale," she exclaimed, with an eloquent glance at the rector. "What a happy life yours must be! and how privileged these people ought to think themselves!"
"I don't know that, Miss Graham," answered Lionel Dale. "I think the privilege is all on my side. It is the pleasure of the rich to minister to the wants of the poor."
Lydia Graham made no reply; but her eyes expressed an admiration which womanly reserve might have forbidden her lips to utter.
While the pudding was being eaten, Mr. Dale walked round amongst his humble guests, to exchange a few kindly words here and there; to shake hands; to pat little children's flaxen heads; to make friendly inquiries for the sick and absent.
As he paused to talk to one of his parishioners, his attention was attracted by a strange face. It was the face of an old man, who sat at the opposite side of the table, and seemed entirely absorbed by the agreeable task of making his way through a noble slice of plum-pudding.