hisself and larfed at him,” as he expressed it; the organ was playing and a dozen small boys with three or four men were industriously practising the anthem “Arise, Shine,” producing strains which if not calculated altogether to elevate the heart by their harmony, would certainly have caused the hair of a sensitive musician to rise on end; three or four of the oldest inhabitants were leaning on their sticks in the neighbourhood of the great stove in the middle aisle, warming themselves and grumbling that “times warn’t as they used to be;” Mr. Abraham Boosey was noisily declaring that he had “cartlods more o’ thim greens” to come, and Muggins, who had had some beer, was stumbling cheerfully against the pews in his efforts to bring a huge load of fir branches to the foot of Mr. Thomas Reid’s long ladder.  It was a thorough Christmas scene and John Short’s heart warmed as he came back suddenly to the things which for three years had been so familiar to him and which he had so much missed in his solitude at Cambridge.  Mr. and Mrs. Ambrose set to work and John followed their example.  Even the prickly holly leaves were pleasant to touch and there was a homely joy in the fir branches dripping with half melted snow.

Before they had been at work very long, John was aware of a little figure, muffled in furs and standing beside him.  He looked up and saw little Nellie’s lovely face and long brown curls.

“Can’t I help you, Mr. Short?” she asked timidly.  “I like to help, and they won’t let me.”

“Who are ’they’?” asked John kindly, but looking about for the figure of Nellie’s mother.

“The schoolmistress and Mrs. Ambrose.  They said I should dirty my frock.”

“Well,” said John, doubtfully, “I don’t know.  Perhaps you would.  But you might hold the string for me—­that won’t hurt your clothes, you know.”

“There are more greens this year,” remarked Nellie, sitting down upon the end of the choir bench where John was at work and taking the ball of string in her hand.  “Mr. Juxon has sent a lot from the park.”

“He seems to be always sending things,” said John, who had no reason whatever for saying so, except that the squire had sent a hamper to the vicarage.  “Did he stay long before dinner?” he added, in the tone people adopt when they hope to make children talk.

“Stay long where?” asked Nellie innocently.

“Oh, I thought he went into your house after we left you,” answered John.

“Oh no—­he did not come in,” said Nellie.  John continued to work in silence.  At some distance from where he was, Mrs. Goddard was talking to Mrs. Ambrose.  He could see her graceful figure, but he could hardly distinguish her features in the gloom of the dimly-lighted church.  He longed to leave Nellie and to go and speak to her, but an undefined feeling of hurt pride prevented him.  He would not forgive her for having taken the vicar’s arm in coming home through the park; so he stayed where he was, pricking his fingers with the holly and rather impatiently pulling the string off the ball which Nellie held.  If Mrs. Goddard wanted to speak to him, she might come of her own accord, he thought, for he felt that he had behaved foolishly in asking if she wished to see his odes.  Somehow, when he thought about it, the odes did not seem so good now as they had seemed that afternoon.