But, my dear Harding, how are you? You are
come to eat your Christmas dinner with us, I hope?"
"That same thing, Major," answered the new comer. "Troubridge and
Stockbridge, how are you? This, I presume, is your partner, Hamlyn?"
We went back to the house. Harding, I found, was half-owner of a
station to the north-east, an Oxford man, a great hand at skylarking,
and an inveterate writer of songs. He was good-looking too, and
gentlemanlike, in fact, a very pleasant companion in every way.
Dinner was to be at six o'clock, in imitation of home hours; but we did
not find the day hang heavy on our hands, there was so much to be
spoken of by all of us. And when that important meal was over we
gathered in the open air in front of the house, bent upon making
Christmas cheer.
"What is your last new song, eh, Harding?" said the Major; "now is the
time to ventilate it."
"I've been too busy shearing for song-writing, Major."
Soon after this we went in, and there we sat till nearly ten o'clock,
laughing, joking, singing, and drinking punch. Mary sat between James
Stockbridge and Tom, and they three spoke together so exclusively and
so low, that the rest of us were quite forgotten.
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