Mr. Broadstreet hung the wreaths he had brought upon the bed-post, and waited helplessly. A mist gathered in his eyes, so that he could not see; the walls of the little dismal chamber wavered to and fro, the Shadow grew more and more dense until it seemed to assume definite shape, the shape of Christmas Present, sitting as before, enthroned amidst plenty and good cheer; the deep-toned bells in a neighboring church-tower slowly and solemnly tolled twelve strokes, answered by the silver chime of a clock; the flames of the open fire rose and fell fitfully, in mute answer to the blasts of wind that roared about the chimney top. The Ghost dwindled rapidly, the Discouraged Man assumed the proportions and appearance of a marble figure under the mantel, and Mr. Broadstreet, starting up in affright, found himself standing in his own warm room, the Christmas Carol still open at the wonderful picture in his hand. The air still vibrated with the last echoes of the midnight-bell. It was Christmas morning.
Not many hours later, the glad sun was shining brightly over the white-robed city, sprinkling the streets and housetops with diamond-dust, gleaming upon the golden spires of churches, seeking out every dark and unwholesome corner with its noiseless step, and dispensing with open hand its bounty of purity and warmth. Yet the shadow was there, even on that fairest of Christmas Days,—and Mr. Broadstreet knew it.
Throughout the day he was thoughtful and abstracted, and during the following weeks he was observed to act in the most unaccountable manner. On snowy evenings he would dodge out of the house without the slightest warning, and return shortly after with damp boots and a defeated air.