At the tea-table Irene rallied her spirits and talked lightly to her father; it was only by an effort that he could respond with even apparent cheerfulness.
Complaining of a headache, Irene retired, soon after tea, to her room, and did not come down again during the evening.
The next day was Christmas.

It rose clear and mild as a day in October.

When Irene came down to breakfast, her pale, almost haggard, face showed too plainly that she had passed a night of sleeplessness and suffering.

She said, "A merry Christmas," to her father, on meeting him, but there was no heart in the words.

It was almost impossible to disguise the pain that almost stifled respiration.