380 COLD CHKISTMAS TIDINGS. 



On the morrow after the disaster of the cricket, my cousin 

 and I were again the guests of Mrs. Dove, but then in her 

 own, the house-keeper's room, for my uncle spent the day in 

 bed, a custom of no rare occurrence on that which followed his 

 annual academic commemoration. The next morning, however, 

 being that of Christmas-day, we breakfasted, as usual, in the 

 parlour, and received, each of us, a hearty kiss, and a blessing 

 as hearty, appropriate to the season. In the same overflowing 

 spirit he failed not to garnish both our plates with nicely 

 apportioned slices of the spiced beef which always, at the fes- 

 tive season, reigned paramount over the ham and tongue of 

 ordinary breakfasts. After having himself done ample justice 

 to the ruddy round, he had just equalized its surface by a last 

 shaving, Lucy, lately promoted to the office of tea-maker, was 

 pouring out his third cup, when Caleb entered, and laid two 

 letters on the table by his master. The stable-lad had just 

 brought them from the neighbouring fishing-town, whither he 

 and the fat pony were in the habit of repairing thrice a week 

 to fetch prawns and despatches. Of the two just arrived, one 

 was a Christmas annual from my father, the vicar's brother, a 

 merchant in London, the other a stiff, business-looking letter 

 with a large seal, which my uncle, after he had read aloud the 

 contents of the first, proceeded to open. Though fifty years 

 have passed since that morning, I seern to have now before 

 me the countenance of its reader under the talismanic change 

 wrought by that piece of paper. He seemed to gulp down a 



