“God rest you, merry gentlemen!
Let nothing you dismay!
Remember Christ our Saviour
Was born on Christmas Day!”
Then came a pause,—a murmur—and again the quaint old melody began—
“God rest you, merry gentlemen!
Let nothing you dismay!——”
Uttering a smothered cry, Josiah McNason started to his feet. What—what was this? Where was he? Wildly he stared about him—and then with a kind of hysterical shout, recognised his surroundings.
“I’m at home!” he cried—“At home! In my own house! In my own room! Thank God!”
Pressing his hands to his forehead he gazed bewilderedly at every familiar object. There was his desk—his armchair,—(he seemed to have just sprung out of that chair)—the fireplace, where now there was no fire but only a heap of white ashes in the grate—the telephone—ah, that telephone!—his papers, books, letters, ink, pens—ledgers—and a cheque-book,... On this last object his eyes rested meditatively.