"I am so glad to hear all this, papa. Indeed, I wish now that Mr. Ulyett could come on Christmas Day. His racy, shrewd talk might have amused you."
"To say the truth, my dear, I did ask him, and through doing so found out that he and Mr. Worthington had been laying their heads together, with the result aforesaid."
"That is just like you, papa," said Anna, "inviting guests, and saying nothing to me until they have either accepted or refused your invitation."
If the young speaker had a lingering hope that another invitation might have been given and accepted, she was mistaken; for Mr. Spencer meekly replied, "It was only the one, Anna, and Mr. Ulyett did not accept. Would you like to suggest another?"
There was Mr. Spencer throwing the responsibility on his daughter a second time. If he had only asked Arthur Glyn without leave, he need not have feared a scolding; as if he ever did fear one from such gentle lips!
Perhaps he guessed her thoughts, for he said, "Well, Anna, darling, there is only the curate, and surely Mr. Ulyett would not ask all the people from the new rectory, and neglect the solitary occupant of the old one."
"Mr. Glyn was expecting a sister, papa."
"True, my dear. I remember he told me so. Suppose, then, we ask the two to join us. He is a fine fellow, and a good man. He will talk to me without causing a jar on any tender string, and the young lady will be a little company for you and Aunt Adelaide, who has been sorrowfully remarking that she cannot believe this is the 21st of December, for it is 'not a bit like Christmas,' in-doors or out."
Anna did not wait for more to be said. She slipped quietly out of the room, and before Aunt Adelaide was finally roused by the second dinner-bell, the note of invitation was on its way to Little Cray Rectory, addressed in the clear writing of Anna Spencer. Guess, if you can, how the curate's brow smoothed, and the firelight seemed to dance again, as he read the kindly worded note, and felt that, in spite of drizzle and downpour—of the little sister's absence and his own loneliness—he could no longer look forward to the 25th of December with the thought that for him it would "not be a bit like Christmas."
Miss Spencer had not to wait long for a reply. In fact, the curate carried it himself. Despite the remonstrances of Esther Morris, who persisted that the weather was "not fit for a dog to go out in, much less a Christian and a passon," he donned stout boots and macintosh, and, heedless of rain overhead and mud below him, arrived at Cray Holm just when the little party had adjourned to the drawing-room after dinner.