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admirable looks, and as high a flow of spirits, as she had when a young bride in the full bloom of youth.
    “Mrs. Chute,” I said warmly as she grasped my hands in both of hers. “A very happy Christmas.”
    “Jane,” she murmured. “Do not affect formality with me, I beg, tho’ it has been an age since we met! Caroline, my dear, is that beautiful creature your very own? She is so cunningly turned out, I declare she shall throw all the other ladies into the shade! And now let us repair to a better fire—for the chill in this hall is impossible to dispel!”
    We gave up our wraps to the footmen and followed our hostess down a panelled passage. The Vyne’s remarkable reception rooms are very little altered from Tudor times, however much the Strawberry Hill Set might have wished otherwise. As I made my way through the large drawing-room, however, I saw it was filled with a colourful array of strangers—something our Steventon family could not have anticipated from Eliza’s missive. But there could be no turning back now; I must endure the gauntlet of critical eyes, with chin raised high.
    My brother James, who led our parade, halted before William Chute, Eliza’s husband, and bowed; the two are old cronies these many years, their friendship having to do entirely with dogs, horses, and guns. Mr. Chute married his Eliza when she was three-and-twenty, a lady reared in comfortable circumstances and considerable elegance; he was four-and thirty, a trifling disparity at the time, and only lately come into his inheritance. Twenty years on, Elizabeth still appears to considerable advantage, enjoying all the blessings of health, prosperity, and high spirits—while William looks the full weight of his years, being much weathered from his persistent exposure to the out-of-doors. Tho’ he has spent the better part of the past two decades in Parliament, his acquaintance with London has given him no town bronze; he remains the affable and unaffected country gentleman he ever was.
    The Chutes make an enviable picture: the lady so charming and gay, the master so mild and easy; it is a pity that they have no houseful of children to support them. But for all their good fortune, they were denied this single material blessing, and chose instead to adopt a distant relation—much as my own brother Edward was adopted by Sir Thomas Knight and his lady. 2 In the Chutes’ case, however, the choice fell upon a girl—one Caroline Wiggett, who came to The Vyne at the age of four. She is now a shy, blushing miss of fifteen, who retires with relief from her elders to the schoolroom whenever possible. She stepped forward on this occasion, however, and bobbed a curtsey to our Caroline in welcome. James-Edward hovered near the two, uncertain whether to treat Miss Wiggett as child or young lady.
    “Let me make you known to each other,” Eliza declared in a ringing tone. “How ever am I to accomplish such a task, Mr. Chute, when we are so bewildered by numbers?”
    “Leave ’em to present themselves,” he suggested.
    She scowled at him in mock annoyance. “That should never do. Pray attend, dear friends! You have before you Mr. James Austen, rector of Steventon and vicar, I might add, of our own Sherborne St. John—we hope very much, Mr. Austen, that you will favour us with a short service of Evensong tonight, in the Chapel, in respect of the season.”
    “I should be delighted, ma’am,” James said.
    “Next to him is his excellent wife, Mrs. James Austen; his mother, Mrs. George Austen; and his sisters, Miss Austen and Miss JaneAusten. The young people are Master James-Edward and Miss Caroline Austen.” Eliza drew breath. “I am afraid, Caroline, that I cannot present your doll.”
    “Jemima,” she piped, and held up her treasure.
    “Jemima,” Eliza repeated. “Allow me to make Lady Gambier known to your acquaintance—”
    An aging woman, of considerable magnificence in dress, who inclined her head coldly at little