"How is
she spending this season, which should be so happy? Perhaps in utter
loneliness; or in the midst of that artificial gaiety which is more
wretched than solitude."
* * * * *
The rector of Hallgrove and his guests assembled in the old-fashioned
drawing-room of the manor-house rectory at seven o'clock on that snowy
Christmas-night. The snowflakes fell thick and fast as night closed in
upon the gardens and shrubberies, the swift-flowing river, and distant
hills.
The rectory drawing-room, beautified by the soft light of wax-candles,
and the rich hues of flowers, was a pleasant picture--a picture which
was made all the more charming by the female figures which filled its
foreground.
Chief among these, and radiant with beauty and high spirits, was Lydia
Graham.
She had contrived to draw Lionel Dale to her side. She was seated by a
table scattered with volumes of engravings, and he was bending over her
as she turned the leaves.
Her smiles, her flatteries, her cleverly simulated interest in the
rector's charities and pensioners, had exercised a considerable
influence upon him--an influence which grew stronger with every hour.
There was a sweetness and simplicity in the manners of the two Misses
Mordaunt which pleased him; but the country-bred girls lost much by
contrast with the brilliant Lydia.
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