he big towns in the North of England. His youngest
son, a clergy-man, was with him, and one or two others of his children,
and by the fire sat the doctor.

The doctor had been sitting by the patient, but now that he could do no
more for him he had moved to the fire; and they had taken the ghastly,
half-emptied medicine bottles from the table by the bedside, and had
spread it with a fair linen cloth, and had set out the silver vessels
of the Supper of the Lord. The old man had been "wandering" somewhat
during the day. He had talked much of going home to the old country,
and with the wide range of dying thoughts he had seemed to mingle
memories of childhood with his hopes of Paradise. At intervals he was
clear and collected--one of those moments had been chosen for his last
sacrament--and he had fallen asleep with the blessing in his ears.

He slept so long and so peacefully that the son almost began to hope
that there might be a change, and looked towards the doctor, who still
sat by the fire with his right leg crossed over his left. The doctor's
eyes were also on the bed, but at that moment he drew out his watch and
looked at it with an air of professional conviction, which said, "It's
only a question of time." Then he crossed his left leg over his right,
and turned to the fire again. Before the right leg should be tired, all
would be over. The son saw it as clearly as if it had been spoken, and
he too turned away and sighed.

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