“Thank you, sir. Thank you, sir.” Prompted by the schoolmistress, a noisy chorus of thanks burst from the attentive audience.
“Don’t thank me. Thank Miss Verinder,” said old Dyke, beaming. “It’s she who has taken the trouble.”
“Thank you, miss. Thank you, miss.”
Miss Verinder smiled, blushed, and then continued her speech. “I want to speak about Father Christmas. It is Father Christmas, is it not? who comes down the chimney at night and puts things in your stockings. It is he who goes into the dark woods and grubs up the lovely Christmas trees and drags them over the fields to the village. You like those trees of his, don’t you? Yes, and Father Christmas carries a great sack over his shoulder full of toys to hang on the tree—or perhaps the sack is a bran pie! And he has a staff in his hand. You’ve seen heaps of pictures of him, haven’t you? But you’ve never seen him himself. Oh, how nice it would be to see him! Perhaps”—and Miss Verinder smiled archly—“I say perhaps, he is really close by—only afraid to show himself. I believe he is afraid of the lights. He always moves about in the dark. Shall we turn down the lights?”
“No,” cried the little child at Emmie’s skirts, “don’t turn down the lights. I’m more afraid of the dark zan Fazer Kissmuss is of anysing”; and she clung to Emmie.
“Only for a moment, dear. And you’ve got my hand. There, I’ll keep my arm round you. Now you don’t mind. Mr. Vincent!” And the curate by the switches received his signal.
The room was in darkness, except for the glow of the fire and certain gleams that came through those curtains. One could hear everybody breathing hard. Then out burst the lamp-light again, dazzling one.
“Oh, oh, oh!” The children, recoiling, stared in awe and ecstasy. Father Christmas was in their midst.
He was enormous, overwhelming; a magnificent apparition, all in red, with immense white beard, cotton-wool eyebrows, high reddened cheek-bones, and a great beak of a nose. He stalked towards the curtains, the enraptured children following him.