bells, beating their mighty drums, and bidding the
delighted crowd to make way for the Lord of Misrule. No shouts of "Noel!
Noel!" rang through the frosty air. No children gathered round their
neighbors' doors, singing quaint carols and forgotten glees, and bearing
off rich guerdon in the shape of apples, nuts, and substantial
Christmas buns. In place of the old-time gayety a dreary silence reigned
through the deserted highways, and down the narrow footwalk, with even
step and half-shut eyes, tramped the Puritan herald, ringing his bell
and proclaiming ever and anon in measured tones, "No Christmas! No
Christmas!"

In sober and sad-hued garments was the herald arrayed, with leathern
boots that defied the snow and a copious mantle enveloping his sturdy
frame. Now and then he stopped to warn a couple of belated idlers that
they would do well to separate and go quietly to their homes. Now and
then a little child peeped at him timorously from a doorway, and,
overawed by his sombre aspect and heavy frown, retreated rapidly to hide
its fears in the safe shelter of its mother's gown. Men shook their
heads as he went by, and muttered something that was not always
complimentary to his presence; and women shrugged their shoulders and
sighed, and thought, perchance, of other Christmases in the past, with
Yule-logs burning on the hearth and stray kisses snatched beneath the
mistletoe. From a latticed window a girl's face peered at him with such
a light of laughing malice in the brown eyes that the Puritan, catching
sight of their wicked gleam, paused a moment, as though to reprove the
maiden for her forwardness, or to inquire what mischief was afoot under
this humble roof. But the night was growing chill, and he had still far
to go. It might not be worth while to waste words of counsel on one so
evidently godless; and, with a heavier scowl than usual, he tramped on,
swinging his bell with lusty force. "No Christmas! No Christmas!" echoed
through the darkening streets, and, as he passed, the girl contracted
her features into a grimace that would have done credit to the
wide-mouthed gargoyle of a Gothic cathedral.

"Cicely, Cicely!" cried a voice, at this juncture, from within, "close
the shutters, do, and come and help me."

Cicely, who had been inclined to stare out a little longer, shot the
heavy oaken bolt into its socket, and, opening a door leading to the
inner room, disclosed a scene whose ruddy cheerfulness shone all the