There was a rustling of the boughs of the Christmas Tree as though the guest were leaving.
Nearer, nearer, nearer, along the turnpike came the sound of the bells. At the front gate the sound suddenly ceased.
"They're waiting for me!" said a voice from behind the Tree as it moved away in the direction of the chimney.
Then all heard something more startling still.
The sleigh was approaching the house. Out of the silence and the darkness of Christmas Eve there was travelling toward the house another story—the drama of a man's life.
At the distance of a few hundred yards the sound of the sleigh-bells, borne softly into the room and to the rapt listeners, showed that the driver had turned out of the main drive and begun to encircle the house by that path which enclosed it as within a ring—within the symbol of the eternal.
Under old trees now snow-laden, past the flower-beds of summer, past the long branches of flowering shrubs and of roses that no longer scattered their petals, but now dropped the flowers of the sky, past thoughts and memories, it made its way: as for one who doubles back upon the track of experience with a new purpose and revisits the past as he turns away from it toward another future. Through the darkness, across the fresh snow, on this night of the anniversary of home life, there and on this final Christmas Eve after which all would soon vanish, he drew this band—binding together all the lives there grouped—putting about them the ring of oneness.
That mournful melody of secrecy and darkness began to die out. Fainter and fainter it pulsed through the air. At the gate it was barely heard and then it was not heard: was it gone or was it waiting there?
By the chimney-side there were faint noises.
"He is gone!" whispered Elizabeth with one intense breath.