“We had more sense, or less courage.  We bowed to Kitty’s behests, and went to the back door.

“Patty and I were hardy children, and accustomed to ‘run out’ in all weathers, without much extra wrapping up.  We put Kitty’s shawl over our two heads, and went outside.  I rather hoped to see something of Dick, for it was holiday time; but no Dick passed.  He was busy helping his father to bore holes in the carved seats of the church, which were to hold sprigs of holly for the morrow—­that was the idea of church decoration in my young days.  You have improved on your elders there, young people, and I am candid enough to allow it.  Still, the sprigs of red and green were better than nothing, and, like your lovely wreaths and pious devices, they made one feel as if the old black wood were bursting into life and leaf again for very Christmas joy; and, if only one knelt carefully, they did not scratch his nose.

“Well, Dick was busy, and not to be seen.  We ran across the little yard and looked over the wall at the end to see if we could see anything or anybody.  From this point there was a pleasant meadow field sloping prettily away to a little hill about three quarters of a mile distant; which, catching some fine breezes from the moors beyond, was held to be a place of cure for whooping-cough, or kincough, as it was vulgarly called.  Up to the top of this Kitty had dragged me, and carried Patty, when we were recovering from the complaint, as I well remember.  It was the only ‘change of air’ we could afford, and I dare say it did as well as if we had gone into badly drained lodgings at the seaside.

“This hill was now covered with snow and stood off against the gray sky.  The white fields looked vast and dreary in the dusk.  The only gay things to be seen were the berries on the holly hedge, in the little lane—­which, running by the end of our back-yard, led up to the Hall—­and the fat robin, that was staring at me.  I was looking at the robin, when Patty, who had been peering out of her corner of Kitty’s shawl, gave a great jump that dragged the shawl from our heads, and cried: 

“‘Look!’

“I looked.  An old man was coming along the lane.  His hair and beard were as white as cotton-wool.  He had a face like the sort of apple that keeps well in winter; his coat was old and brown.  There was snow about him in patches, and he carried a small fir-tree.

“The same conviction seized upon us both.  With one breath, we exclaimed, ‘it’s old father Christmas!’

“I know now that it was only an old man of the place, with whom we did not happen to be acquainted and that he was taking a little fir-tree up to the Hall, to be made into a Christmas-tree.  He was a very good-humoured old fellow, and rather deaf, for which he made up by smiling and nodding his head a good deal, and saying, ’aye, aye, to be sure!’ at likely intervals.

“As he passed us and met our earnest gaze, he smiled and nodded so earnestly that I was bold enough to cry, ’Good-evening, Father Christmas!’