And then he continued his writing. During the whole day he had been hard at work. His breakfast was scarcely touched. He waved away the servant girl who would have set before him his lunch. It was now close upon his customary dinner hour, but still he insisted upon isolation. Even the wife of his devotion did not dare to come near him. She knew that he would not speak to her, but only cast at her a glance. But such a glance! A terrible tirade compressed into a solitary look!
The short day waned and passed away. The evening quickly changed into night. There were cheery songs without, as it was Christmas Eve, when all men were thinking of wassail, and holly and mistletoe. Even the performers in the forthcoming pantomime were nearing the close of their last rehearsal, when they would go back to their homes to count the mince pies and glance for the last time at the cooking of the familiar plum pudding.
At length the writer was interrupted, and by his old familiar friend.
"I will not disturb you," said the caller, taking up a newspaper and commencing its perusal; "I know how busy you are, and will be silent as Cornhill on a Sunday."
The writer nodded and continued his work. His pen moved quicker and quicker until at length it stopped.
"Hurrah!" shouted the author. "At last my task is completed. I have brought in every cut and got through the necessary number of lines. Yes, my dear old comrade, I have done. The printer will be satisfied, and the publisher will cease to be alarmed. And now, my dear fellow, I can enjoy Christmas conscious of the fact that I have thoroughly earned a holiday."
"Ah!" observed the visitor glancing at the recently-written pages; "I see you have been writing something for Yuletide."
"Yuletide!" exclaimed the author. "Why, that was accomplished ages ago. No, my dear fellow, I have just finished a summer number timed to appear in August. I shan't think of touching the work of next year's Christmas until April!"