"Keeping watch and ward" was the title of this picture; it was certainly very well painted. A breeze seemed rippling through the corn in the nook where the child lay; there were festoons of honeysuckle and dog-roses, and long sprays of traveller's joy. The stumpy grey terrier sitting erect at his post of duty was full of significance and individuality. The mother was evidently among the reapers in the far distance.
"One would never be tired of looking at that cornfield," observed Olivia, and though Mr. Gaythorne smiled at her enthusiasm, he would not spoil her enjoyment by pointing out to her one or two defects that he had already noticed.
By-and-by he called her to pour out the coffee—Mr. Gaythorne never indulged in afternoon tea.
"This is not much like Christmas weather," he said, looking out at the cold mizzling rain; "the forecasts promise a change, however. I suppose I must not ask if you dislike Christmas, it would not be a fair question at your age."
"No, indeed; I love it dearly. I have only had one sad Christmas—the year dear mother died—it is my birthday too, that makes it doubly festive. I am so glad I was born on such a beautiful day; that is why my second name is Noel."
"And you hold high festival on it?"
"Well, we cannot do much. Marcus and I always go to the early service, that is how we begin the day, and then he always has some little present on the breakfast table. It is the one day in the year we always dine with Aunt Madge; she is such an invalid, you see, that very little tires her; but on Christmas Day, we first dine with her quietly, and have an early tea, then come home; we are generally back by six o'clock, and have a long evening by ourselves. Do you spend Christmas Day quite alone, Mr. Gaythorne?"
"Yes, quite alone," he returned, gloomily; "but I have plenty of ghosts to visit me," and his face twitched, and he stooped over the pictures as he spoke.