t, and it made the usual purr
preparatory to striking. When, lo! and behold, at the very first stroke,
cottage, goblin, fairies, and all disappeared into utter darkness, and
the baron found himself in his turret-chamber, rubbing his toe, which he
had just hit with considerable force against the fender. As he was only
in his slippers, the concussion was unpleasant, and the baron rubbed his
toe for a good while.

After he had finished with his toe he rubbed his nose, and, finally,
with a countenance of deep reflection, scratched the bump of something
or other at the top of his head.

The old clock on the stairs was striking three, and the fire had gone
out.

The baron reflected for a short time longer, and finally decided that he
had better go to bed, which he did accordingly.

III.

The morning dawned upon the very ideal, as far as weather was concerned,
of a Christmas-day. A bright winter sun shone out just vividly enough to
make everything look genial and pleasant, and yet not with sufficient
warmth to mar the pure, unbroken surface of the crisp, white snow, which
lay like a never-ending white lawn upon the ground, and glittered in
myriad silver flakes upon the leaves of the sturdy evergreens.

I am afraid the baron had not had a very good night; at any rate, I know
that he was wide-awake at an hour long before his usual time of rising.

He lay first on one side, and then on the other, and then, by way of
variety, turned on his back, with his magenta nose pointing
perpendicularly towards the ceiling; but it was all of no use. Do what
he would, he couldn't get to sleep, and at last, not long after
daybreak, he tumbled out of bed and proceeded to dress.

Even after he was out of bed his fidgetiness continued. It did not
strike him, until after he had got one boot on, that it would be a more
natural proceeding to put his stockings on first; after which he caught
himself in the act of trying to put his trousers on over his head.

In a word, the baron's mind was evidently preoccupied; his whole air was
that of a man who felt a strong impulse to do something or other, but
could not quite make up his mind to it.

At last, however, the good impulse conquered, and this wicked old baron,
in the stillness of the calm, bright Christmas morning, went down upon
his knees and prayed.

Stiff were his knees and slow his tongue, for neither had done such work
for many a long day past; but I have read in the Book of the jo