December 27.—The weather has remained so wonderfully mild, or “open,” as we say, that outdoor work has received no serious check, and the labouring people were better prepared to face Christmas than it is their wont to be. Bettesworth, amongst others, has had plenty to do as I have been able to keep him employed.

But on looking for him this morning, after the two days' holiday, I discovered him at work in his own part of the garden.

“Oh; going to dig that up this morning?” I asked.

“Ah, it looked so ontidy. An' I ben't jest up to the mark; so I thought I'd have a smack at this.”

Observing him more narrowly, I saw that he looked pale and gently sick. “Feel a bit Christmassy?” I said.

He looked ashamed, and answered with a feeble smile, “That is it, sir, to tell ye the truth. … Some o' my mates with their wives come round to my place last night. They wanted me to goo round to they; but I says ‘No; I en't goin’ out. You best come an' see me.' So they all come, an' we made a reg'lar evenin' of it.”

“You've been having a merry Christmas, then?”

“Oh, there's no mistake about that. We did enjoy ourselves.