As they sat, the bells of a church in the town began to chime for midnight service, for it was Christmas Eve, but they did not wake the dying man.  He slept on and on.

The doctor dozed.  The son read in the Prayer Book on the table, and one of his sisters read with him.  Another, from grief and weariness, slept with her head upon his shoulder.  Except for a warm glow from the fire, the room was dark.  Suddenly the old man sat up in bed, and, in a strong voice, cried with inexpressible enthusiasm,

“How beautiful!”

The son held back his sisters, and asked quietly,

“What, my dear Father?”

“The Christmas Tree!” he said in a low, eager voice.  “Draw back the curtains.”

They were drawn back; but nothing could be seen, and still the old man gazed as if in ecstasy.

“Light!” he murmured.  “The Angel! the Star!”

Again there was silence; and then he stretched forth his hands, and cried passionately,

“The Angel is beckoning to me!  Mother!  Mother dear!  Please open the window.”

The sash was thrown open, and all eyes turned involuntarily where those of the dying man were gazing.  There was no Christmas tree—­no tree at all.  But over the house-tops the morning star looked pure and pale in the dawn of Christmas Day.  For the night was past, and above the distant hum of the streets the clear voices of some waits made the words of an old carol heard—­words dearer for their association than their poetry: 

     “While shepherds watched their flocks by night,
       All seated on the ground,
     The Angel of the Lord came down,
       And glory shone around.”

When the window was opened, the soul passed; and when they looked back to the bed the old man had lain down again, and, like a child, was smiling in his sleep—­his last sleep.

And this was the Third Christmas Tree.

* * * * *

AN IDYLL OF THE WOOD.

“Tell us a story,” said the children, “a sad one, if you please, and a little true.  But, above all, let it end badly, for we are tired of people who live happily ever after.”

“I heard one lately,” said the old man who lived in the wood; “it is founded on fact, and is a sad one also; but whether it ends badly or no I cannot pretend to say.  That is a matter of taste:  what is a bad ending?”

“A story ends badly,” said the children with authority, “when people die, and nobody marries anybody else, especially if it is a prince and princess.”

“A most lucid explanation,” said the old man.  “I think my story will do, for the principal character dies, and there is no wedding.”

“Tell it, tell it!” cried his hearers, “and tell us also where you got it from.”