A night in the toy-box had apparently bred discontent between Jack and Flora—­or perhaps they sought to keep their countenances before the world; at any rate, they sat on opposite sides of the room, Jack keeping boon company with the lead soldiers, his spouse reposing, her lead-balanced eyes closed, in the broken clockwork motor-car.  With the air of performing some vaguely momentous ritual, the children were kissing one another beneath the bunch of mistletoe that hung from the centre beam.  In the intervals of kissing they told one another in whispers that Aunt Rachel was not very well, and Angela woke Flora to tell her that Aunt Rachel had Brown Titus also.

“Stay you here; I will give the lady dear our thanks,” said Annabel to the group of gipsies gathered about the porch; and she entered the great hall-kitchen.  She approached the chair in which Aunt Rachel sat.

There was obeisance in the bend of her body, but command in her long almond eyes, as she spoke.

“Lady dear, you must rock or you cannot live.”

Aunt Rachel did not look up from her work.

“Rocking, I should not live long,” she replied.

“We are leaving you.”

“All leave me.”

“Annabel fears she has taken away your comfort.”

“Only for a little while.  The door closes behind us, but it opens again.”

“But for that little time, rock—­”

Aunt Rachel shook her head.

“No.  It is finished.  Another has seen....  Say good-bye to your companions; they are very welcome to what they have had; and God speed you.”

“They thank you, lady dear....  Will you not forget that Annabel saw, and rock?”

“No more.”

Annabel stooped and kissed the hand that bore the betrothal hoop of pearls.  The other hand Aunt Rachel placed for a moment upon the smoky head of the babe in the sling.  It trembled as it rested there, but the tremor passed, and Annabel, turning once at the porch, gave her a last look.  Then she departed with her companions.

That afternoon, Jack and Flora had shaken down to wedlock as married folk should, and sat together before the board spread with the dolls’ tea-things.  The pallid light in the great hall-kitchen faded; the candles were lighted; and then the children, first borrowing the stockings of their elders to hang at the bed’s foot, were packed off early—­for it was the custom to bring them down again at midnight for the carols.  Aunt Rachel had their good-night kisses, not as she had them every night, but with the special ceremony of the mistletoe.

Other folk, grown folk, sat with Aunt Rachel that evening; but the old walnut chair did not move upon its rockers.  There was merry talk, but Aunt Rachel took no part in it.  The board was spread with ale and cheese and spiced loaf for the carol-singers; and the time drew near for their coming.

When at midnight, faintly on the air from the church below, there came the chiming of Christmas morning, all bestirred themselves.