"While Shep-ep-ep-ep-herds watched--"

He held his soapy brush suspended for a minute. They called this
singing! His mind flitted back to early carol music. Then again he heard
the vocal violence outside.

"Aren't you off there!" he called out, in masculine menace. The noise
stopped, there was a scuffle. But the feet returned and the voices
resumed. Almost immediately the door opened, boys were heard muttering
among themselves. Millicent had given them a penny. Feet scraped on the
yard, then went thudding along the side of the house, to the street.

To Aaron Sisson, this was home, this was Christmas: the unspeakably
familiar. The war over, nothing was changed. Yet everything changed. The
scullery in which he stood was painted green, quite fresh, very clean,
the floor was red tiles. The wash-copper of red bricks was very red, the
mangle with its put-up board was white-scrubbed, the American oil-cloth
on the table had a gay pattern, there was a warm fire, the water in the
boiler hissed faintly. And in front of him, beneath him as he leaned
forward shaving, a drop of water fell with strange, incalculable rhythm
from the bright brass tap into the white enamelled bowl, which was now
half full of pure, quivering water. The war was over, and everything
just the same. The acute familiarity of this house, which he had built
for his marriage twelve years ago, the changeless pleasantness of it all
seemed unthinkable. It prevented his thinking.

When he went into the middle room to comb his hair he found the
Christmas tree sparkling, his wife was making pastry at the table, the
baby was sitting up propped in cushions.

"Father," said Millicent, approaching him with a flat blue-and-white
angel of cotton-wool, and two ends of cotton--"tie the angel at the
top."

"Tie it at the top?" he said, looking down.

"Yes. At the very top--because it's just come down from the sky."

"Ay my word!" he laughed. And he tied the angel.

Coming downstairs after changing he went into the icy cold parlour, and
took his music and a small handbag. With this he retreated again to the
back kitchen. He was still in trousers and shirt and slippers: but now
it was a clean white shirt, and his best black trousers, and new pink
and white braces. He sat under the gas-jet of the back kitchen, looking
through his music. Then he opened the bag, in which were sections of a
flute and a piccolo. He took out the flute, and adjusted it. As he sat
he was physic