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[ALL RIGHTS BXSKKYK).] A YULETIDE JOY BY SHIRLEY RAYNARD, Author of "A Christmas Engagement," "Tha Ghost of the West Wing," "Robert Lanyon's Mistake," "A Widow's Love Story," 4c. Breakfast was laid for two in the tiny dining- Toom of a South Kensington flat. The appoint- ments of the table were of the daintiest descrip- tion, the furniture costly, and of an elegant simplicity. A graceful woman entered the room listlessly, and took her place behind the tray. There were traces of tears round her beautiful eyes, and her whole bearing spoke of depression. Presently, her husband took his seat opposite to her and unfolded his serviette in silence. He was evidently not in the best of spirits. The pretence of eating went on for some minutes, but at length Margaret Vaughan put down her knife and fork, pushed her plate aside, and broke the silence. "And so you have finally decided not to tell me where you were last night ? she said, in a tearful Toice. "Finally decided," he said, coldly, taking up and unfolding a newspaper. "Well, I shall stand this treatment no longer," she said. "I am perfectly certain you went some- where you are ashamed to tell me of, or you would own up. It is not the first time you have played me this trick," she went on, bitterly. "Oh, Margaret, how much longer am I to endure these scenes ? "Scenes indeed!" x^i d she, rising from the table. "You know very well that there would be no scenes if you would be more open with me." She tapped her small shoe against the kerb tiles of the hearth and pouted her pretty red lips. Philip rose and came towards her. "Let us be friends, Madge," he said, gently. "You know I would go nowhere that you could possibly object to, but I do hate to be always questioned and suspected when I happen to be an hour later than usual." She shook his hand angrily from her arm, and » went out of the room. Philip Vaughan's face darkened, and he sighed bitterly. Of late, these disagreements had become common, and he was weary of them beyond expression. He loved Margaret dearly, but lie had discovered, shortly after his marriage, that his pretty wife was jealous and suspicious of him whenever she could not account for any time he had spent out of her presence. At first, he laughed off her little fits of temper, explaining carefully all his'doings, but in course of time her catechism became irksome, and j he began to answer her with a few short words. They had now been married eighteen months, and during the last few weeks she had been more unreasonable than ever. His life was becoming a misery, and he said to himself bitterly that his marriage was a failure. Margaret Vaughan was an only child, and, though naturally of a sweet dis- position, her training had not fitted her to contend with the difficulties of life. Her every fancy had tion considered, her every whim gratified. So 'long as r,°thing crassed her will things ran smoothly, but when thwa»te<^ her passionate temper was apt to get the better of her B.,od sense. I A false pride too often stood in the way, when BU. I would have confessed her foolishness to Philip. I She really loved him, and it was only the defects of her training which stood in the way of their 1 happiness. On this particular inorning she felt .v!1 more obstinate than usual, and when she heard her husband in the hall preparing to leave the house she remained shut up in her room. Presently the door closed behind him, and his footsteps sounded fainter as he descended the steps. She rushed to the window to try and catch a last glimpse of him, but he walked close to the tall red building, instead of crossing over the road, and so she missed even a momentary view of him. "Ah, well," she said to herself, "he will be back to lunch, and I will really try and do better." She then bathed her eyes and put on a bra-ve face to deceive the servants. The morning, spent in correspondence, some trifling household duties, and a little fancy work, passed quickly away, and about one o'clock she took her seat near the window that she miht see Philip as soon as he turned the corner of the road. It was rather unusual for him to be out in the morning, as he considered the evly hours the best for work, and was generally shut in his study from ten to one o'clock. He was working hard at the production of a new book, which he hoped would make its mark in the literary world. She waited patiently until half- past one, and then decided that he was taking lunch in town. She sat somewhat disconsolately through the afternoon, and towards evening began again to listen anxiously for his step. The maid brought in lights and drew down the window blind. Margaret was trying to read, but she found the sense of the author escaped her. She seemed only to skim the surface of what she was reading. From time to time she started, as some noise broke the silonce, and listened attentively. She rang the bell and ordered dinner to be put back half-an-hour, and still waited. At length she became nervous and restless, and found it impos- sible to remain in one place. She walked acros3 the hall into her bedroom and through into Philip's dressing-room. His coat was thrown across the back of a chair. She caressed it with her fingers. It was the coat lie had worn in the morning. In moviflg frou} the chair she found he had left his letter-Case, wnsili contained his loose papers, in .the breast-pocket. She hung the coat in the wardrobe, turned the key, and put it in h?r pocket. She then returned to the drawing-room. At length dinner was announced, and she ajjain went through a pretence of eating, and still Philip did not return. Gradually, an idea forced itself I fflptm her, Philip dH n/t yi-Wft to count hark; At last she had worn out his long patience, and made bim desperate. No telling to what lengths he would now go. She had never really believed the things of which she had accused him, but she had made him think that she did so. livening wore to night, and still he did not come and at length, totterly worn out, she burst into a passion of tears. She sank down upon the rug. resting her arms and I weary head upon his armchair, and wave way to her grief. As she became calmer she began to think. 1'ride came to her help, and she decided that whatever happened nobody should know of their quarrel. be first thing to be done was to make some excuse, so that he should not be expected home. For she no longer doubted that he had purposely left her. He had always been in the habit of telegraphing when unexpectedly detained beyond the dinner-hour. Fortune favoured her, as she was trying to devise some reason to give for his absence. The maid brought in an express letter. It really contained matter of no import- ance, but it served her purpose. She rang the bell, and when her summons was answered, said, with a tolerable command of voice "Jane, I shall not require anything e!se to- night. The master has been suddenly called away on business. It may be several days before he returns." I Days passed away and he did not- come. Margaret bore up as well as she could. She paid calls, received visitors, and went about as usual, I but when night came, and she was shut away from all prving eyes, she gave way to her sorrow. Surely, she said, her punishment was too severe. Nt a word nor a. line had Philip sent to teil her where he was. Never had she loved him r.9 now, never seen his virtues and her own faults in the present light. His faults had gradually faded from her memory, and she felt that she could forgive much more than had ever been required of her. She was tried from time to time by inquiries being made about her husband. "When is Mr. Vaughan returning?" asked an acquaintance one afternoon. "We are beginning to call you the deserted wife," she added, plaiftilly. "I am not quite sure," returned Margaret, Coolly. "He found it impossible to finish his book >ithout a change. Do you take cream and sugar ? 1 forget." "I -nlll1Ost wonder you did not accompany him. The days are so dull in town at this time of year." "I always find so much to do just before Christmas," replied Margaret, stooping to pick up her handkerchief, which had fallen at her feet.* The visitor took leave of Margaret, and as she walked down the stairs, said to herself: "NVoll, there is nothing in the rumour after all. I really began to think they had had a serious tiff, but Margaret could not keeo her countenance as she did. if such were. the case." How the days dragged by Margaret knew not how to fill the hours. "Will he never return." she said, bitterly, "or give some sicrn that 1 may fiijtJ him and tell him how I suffer ? When Philip Vaughan left home on that meiuor- ■ifi'e morninv, he walked quietly to South ,i., i, r#Tr«ingfon Station and stepped into a train just. mg for Victoria. His mind was «t/v full of He fVic I hal Marcjun-t and h -ire drift- P: *»>ri. lit Is.v.'d his wife teri(le-, i, but hsi Constant jealousy was wearing off the freshness of hit affection. He was weary and sick of the petty struggle, and wondered how it would all end. Where were the beautiful dreams of marriage that he had held so sacred ? Were they all to dissolve into this sordid reality ? Arrived at Victoria, he made his way to Westminster, made a business call there, and then walked along Parliament-street, •nd across Whitehall. The road was covered with greasy mud, and was very slippery. PhilIp. absorbed in thought, was not paying much atten- tion to the traffic, until he heard a shout, felt him- self slipping in front of a 'bus, realised that he had fallen heavily upon his head, and knew no more. A crowd gathered. He was quickly placed upon an ambulance and conveyed to the nearest hospital, where he was tended with every care. The doctors saw at once that the case was of a serious nature. No gleam of consciousness appeared upon the face of the sick man for days. His clothing was searched in order to find some clue to his relatives, but none was found. Had he not changed his coat before leaving home his letters and papers would at once have given the desired information, and Margaret would have been summoned to his bed- side. There wa3 nothing to be done but wait for his return to consciousness. At one period his life was despaired of, but in course of time the case took a more favourable turn, and the patient had gleams of semi-consciousness. Then it was that doctors and nurses alike regretted that there was no face near for him to recognise, believing that had there been it would have helped in drawing him back to life. He would wake, look round with a bewildered expression, not understanding his surroundings, and then fall back into his former state. So time passed up to Christmas, )a a 1 • ♦ • » Meanwhile, Margaret was dragging on a miserable existence at home. Afraid to go out lest she should meet her friends and be obliged to answer questions about the welfare of her husband, and afraid to remain in the flat lest they should call. The strain was telling upon her physically. Her eye lacked lustre and her step elasticity. As the days drew on towards Christmas, she felt more and more depressed. She thought sometimes she would go mad. No word, no sign had he given. She felt that she could not endure much more in silence. Two days before Christmas she received a note from an old schoolfellow who had taken up nursing, and was now in training. "Dear Madge," it ran, "I am writing to you, as I know you arc a person of leisure, to ask a favour. We are working very hard at Christmas decorations for the wards, and are also using up spare time in preparing to entertain the patients on Christmas Eve. Unfortunately, wo are excep- tionally busy, and our helpers are unusually few. Could you spare a day to coma and lend a hand ? And, if it be not too much to ask, will yon help us in the entertainment ? You sing so beautifully that I cannot tell you what a help you would be. I feel sure Philip will spare you just one day and one evening if you ask him nicely. He has you all the rest of the time. Excuse this scribble. The bell is ringing, and I must go. Do come, there's a dear.—Yours ever, BEATRICE." Margaret's first impulse was to refuse. She took out a sheet of notepaper, dipped her pen in the ink, and paused. "I believe, after all, I will go," she said to herself. "I am no use to Philip, no use to my- self, and I might as well be doing something for somebody." She wrote a brief note, saying she would be at the hospital the following morning at eleven. She would do her best to help with the decorations, but did not feel quite in the humour for singing. Philip could spare her quite well, she added bitterly. Next morning she regretted her promise, but she was not one to go back from her word, SO s; dressed with what soirit she could, feeling that nothing was worth doing. Arrived at the hospital, she was shewn up to the ward where her friend worked. Beatrice met her at the "How pleased I am you WotO able to come she said, with a smile. "Several people have looked in to help since 1 wrote to you, but Nurse Fanshaw is badly in want of an assistant in her ward. If you will kindly work with her I shall be so pleased." "I am only too glad to neip, returned Margaret, trying to smile. "Where shall I begin ? "Well, if you do not mind I will set you to work in the ward kitchen. I shall be able to come and help you later in the day. At present I am on duty, and my time is taken up. We are making holly wreaths just now. See, this is how they are done. Let me take your coat and hat before you begin. You will be cosy in that corner. Oh, here monies nurse. Let me introduce Nurse Fanshaw. My friend, Mrs. Vaughan. I really must go now. Good-bye for the present." Margaret toiled away at the holly wreaths, pricking her delicate white fingers with the stiff branches. It was a relief to have some mechanical work to take her attention, and she worked at it with a will. The nurses ran to and fro. Some- times one worked with her, sometimes another, as they could spare time. The wreaths finished, Nurse Fanshaw brought out pieces of material upon which to fix letters of cotton-wool. These they spangled over to catch the light. Margaret found this rather unpleasant work, as the- wool would stick to her fingers instead of the red cloth. She had a good deal of trouble to manufacture "A Merry Christmas." It would not come right. Towards evening they began to put the decorations in their places—a motto on one wall, festoons of evergreens and wreaths upon others. "That, will do nicely," said Nurse Fanshaw, as she fixed up a bunch of holly over the bed of a patient. kom "What shall I do with this small motto ? asked Margaret, who was standing near. "Oh, I know," she addad. "I will place it on that empty wall at the side, so that the patient in the^bed behind the screen will be able to see it." "Very well," said Nurse FLLnshaw; ilbut I am afraid my patient behind the screen will not take much notice of it. He has been mostly unconscious for many a day, poor man But leave that now, and come and have a cup of tea." "What is the matter with that poor man?" asked Margaret, when they were out of the ward. "He had an accident and hurt his head. I have hopes of him, but the doctors, I can see, are beginning to despair. Unfortunately we hate no clue to his friends. It is very sad for him. We think if we had a familiar face here it might be helpful in bringing him to I will run and fix up that last motto whilst you finish your tea." This done 8h; retmned to Margaret" and they I were joined by Nurse Beatrice, who was in very good spirits. «itGw prettily vou have decorated your ward," she remarked, glancing down it. The screens round that bed at the other end rather spoil the effect. I suppose you have a bad cttse there ? "Mrs. Vaughan is really responsible for the artistic effeet," sai d Nurse Fanshaw. "lean do nothing in that line." "Not at all," said Margaret. "You have done far more of the work than I have. I must be going home now, Beatrice, I think," she added. "Oh, Margaret, you will stay and help us with the concert ? We have so few good singers, except comic ones. We have heaps of music here, so you will not have that excuse. Besides, you can sing without notes when you wish." "Well, if o i really want me, I can spare an hour or two more," said Margaret, somewhat sadly. She felt it a relief to be prevented from returning to her lonely flat. She hardly dare think for a moment lest she should give way to her feelings and break down. "Christmas Eve 1" The words kept ringing in her unwilling ears, reminding her of one short year ago, and all her happiness with Philip. "Fool! fool she ejaculated, under -her breath. "But I have learnt better now if only 1he would return." The gaiety of the students and nurses seemed to grate upon her sensibilities, but she tried to throw herself into the spirit of the entertainment and for a short time forget her own sorrows. The concert party passed from ward to ward, singing songs, glees, &c. Some of the students possessed a talent for acting, and sang their songs in character, to the great amusement of such patients as were able to take part in the fun. Margaret was invited to help from time to time, and she sang several songs, strange as it seemed to her to hear her ow 1 voice. At length the party reached Nurse Fanshaw's ward. The singers and actors arranged themselves about the middle of the long room, and began with a glee. A song by a young student followed this, and then Margaret was asked to sing. She sat down to the piano and turned over the leaves of the music listlessly. What should she sing ? There seemed to be nothing in the books that appealed to her. After a moment's pause, she closed the music-book, and her fingers began to play dreamily the prelude to "Beauty's Eyes." It was a favourite old song of Philip's. How often she had sung it at his request, whilst he lay back in his long easy- chair watching her. Now, as she sang, she forgot ¡. her surroundings for a moment, and felt as if she were at home in the flat. Her young, clear -voice rang mt with passionate emphasis down the length of the ward. Her perfect articulation made the words of the song so distinct that they could be followed by the most distant person present. Wheig she reached the last verse: "I want no kingdom wherethon art, 1OT«! I want no throne to make me blest," there was passion ringing in every word. It reached all hearts. Every ear was atrained to listen, and, save for the notes of music, complete silence reigned. Suddenly there was a crash! A screen had fallen at the further end of the room. In its fall it had upset and broken a glass standing near the bedside. Margaret paused in her song, and looked up in tha direction of the disturbance. She uttered a low cry. "Philip! she murmured, beneath her breath. Nurse Fanshaw had noiselessly crossed the ward the moment the screen fell. She was surprised, unon looking round after re-arranging it, to find Margaret by her siae. cue naa nung nerselt down upon her knees by the bed, and was passionately kissing the sick man. She was hidden from view by the position of the screen. Nurse Fanshaw intuitively understood that her presence was no longer required. She returned to the group in the centre of the room, gave a few words of explana- tion, and asked them to proceed with the concert. I "Can you ever forgive me, Philip darling?" said Margaret, as she bent over her husband. "There is nothing to forgive, Madge," returned he, gravely. "Do you know, I believe yorr song woke me to my right senses. I have been terribly mystified for days. I think I had an accident, but I do not remember very well." "Don't try to talk more now, dear," she said, with tears in her eyes. "To think I have been within a few yards of you the whole day and had no idea that you were lying suffering here. Do you know, Philip, I thought you had gone and left me because of my foolishness ? I fancied you were staying away to punish me." "Dear child!" said he, tenderly, stroking her hair. "How could you think me such a brute? I believe even yet you have no idea how I love you "I have been foolish and wickedly jealous," she said, between her sobs; "but you will never find me like that again." They were now interrupted by the nurse, who said that any further excitement would be bad for her patient, and askei" --argaret to leave him. After a brief "Grood-n^iyjl she turned away, promising to be with him again as soon as she was allowed. She was assured that he had taken a turn for the better, and would now probably recover rapidly. Beatrice helped her into her coat and bid her "Good-night," and "A merry Christmas!" "How strange it should turn out like this, Margaret," she said. "You must have been terribly anxious. If I had only had any idea that Philip was there I have walked down that ward several times, but never looked behind the screen." "And I," said Margaret, "•.ever dreamt that my husband had met with an accident. He had been away from home some days," she added, trying to sound as if there were nothing unusual about that. "I am tired. Good-night, dear. I will return in the morning." Six days afterwards a cab drove up to the flats, and out of it stepped Philip and Margaret. There was joy upon both faces as they entered the building together. Philip was still a little feeble, for the shock had been great, and the strain upon his nervous system severe. Margaret watched his every movement with protecting care. What a good thing there is a lift, Philip. The steps would not suit you just said she. "No. 1 am a poor creature at present," he returned. They found a bright fire in the cosy drawing- room, and a dainty little tea laid. "How delightful it is to have you home again, Philip said Margaret, with tears of joy in her eyes. "Not half so delightful as it is for me to be once more with my darling. Margaret, you can never know how much I love you." She sat down upon the rug close to his sofa, taking his hand into both her own. "My husband," she said, looking into his eyes, "in future I will always trust you, come what may." [THE EXD. ]