They have always had a Christmas-dance in Roger's reign, and so
a dance they are to have now. We have religiously eaten our beef and
plum-pudding, and have each made a separate little blue fire of burnt
brandy in our spoon.
It is dessert now, and father has proposed Roger's health. I did not
expect it, and I never was so nearly betrayed into feeling fond of
father in my life. They all drink it, each wishing him something good.
As for me, I have been a fool always, and I am a fool now. I can wish
him nothing, my voice is choked and my eyes drowned in inappropriate
tears; only, from the depths of my heart, I ask God to give him every
thing that He has of choicest and best. For a moment or two, the
wax-lights, the purple grapes, the gleaming glass and shining silver,
the kindly, genial faces swim blurred before my vision. Then I hastily
wipe away my tears, and smile back at them all. As I raise my glistening
eyes, I meet those of Mr. Musgrave fixed upon me--(he is the only
stranger present). His look is not one that wishes to be returned; on
the contrary, it is embarrassed at being met.
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