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 ecstacy.
“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 was thrown open, and all eyes turned involuntarily where those of the dying man were gazing. There was no Christmas-Tree—no tree at all. But over the housetops the morning star looked pure and pale in the dawn of Christmas Day. For the night was past, and above the distant hum of the streets the clear voices of some waits made the words of an old carol heard—words dearer for their association than their poetry—