CHAPTER VI.
THE DAY BEFORE CHRISTMAS.
"Still to ourselves in every place consigned.
Our own felicity we make or find." "Catch, then, oh, catch the transient hour! Improve each moment as it flies.
Life's a short summer, man a flower; He dies, alas! how soon he dies!" There are days which rise sadly, go on without sunshine, and pass into night without one gleam of color.

Life, also, has these pallid, monotonous hours.

A distrust of all things invades the soul, and physical inertia and mental languor make daily existence a simple weight.

It was Christmas-time, but the squire felt none of the elation of the season.

He was conscious that the old festal preparations were going on, but there was no response to them in his heart.