Simple as the dinner was--simple as befitted those who, their guests knew, could not honestly afford luxuries; though there were no ornaments, save the centre nosegay of laurustinus and white Christmas roses--I do not think King George himself ever sat down to a nobler feast.
Afterwards we drew merrily round the fire, or watched outside the window the thickly falling snow.
"It has not snowed these two months," said John; "never since the day our little girl was born." And at that moment, as if she heard herself mentioned, and was indignant at our having forgotten her so long, the little maid up-stairs set up a cry--that unmistakable child's cry, which seems to change the whole atmosphere of a household.
My father gave a start--he had never seen or expressed a wish to see John's daughter.

We knew he did not like babies.

Again the little helpless wail; Ursula rose and stole away--Abel Fletcher looked after her with a curious expression, then began to say something about going back to the tan-yard.
"Do not, pray do not leave us," John entreated; "Ursula wants to show you our little lady." My father put out his hands in deprecation; or as if desiring to thrust from him a host of thronging, battling thoughts.

Still, came faintly down at intervals the tiny voice, dropping into a soft coo of pleasure, like a wood-dove in its nest--every mother knows the sound.

And then Mrs.Halifax entered holding in her arms her little winter flower, her baby daughter.
Abel Fletcher just looked at it and her--closed his eyes against both, and looked no more.
Ursula seemed pained a moment, but soon forgot it in the general admiration of her treasure.
"She might well come in a snow-storm," said Mrs.Jessop, taking the child.