out gaunt Rembrandtish effect: where, too,
is Christmas food in the bulk, raw material
of coming cheer in huge massive heaps, of
which are there sellers in bulk, and buyers in
bulk. Sellers entrenched strongly behind
groaning counters and mounds of provision;
behind monster poultry suspended high;
behind primest joints; all with Christmas
purpose. Dark foliage overhead of shining
green-necked birds newly arrived from those
richly-wooded counties with Christmas purpose.
Flocks of wild birds, armies of great fowl, with
Christmas purpose. Buyers gauging monster
poultry, appraising the height and depth of
their fatness with Christmas purpose. Sellers
giving out ceaselessly, taking in ceaselessly,
with Christmas purpose. Housewives, hand
in pocket, reflectively taking thought of what
store they needed; not so much caring for
hard-bargains on this eve; thinking, with
glistening eye, how little Tom, or Jack, or
Harry, now on his way home, would be
gathered round her cheer—whose little
hearts would be set a-dancing at this sight.
Perhaps, even the dripping ostler, after
change of his damp garments, had been up
here with Christmas purpose. Groves of
holly and ivy with Christmas purpose.
Everybody, everything, with Christmas
purpose, beyond myself; who was now wandering
utterly purposeless, cut off from any Christmas
hope and prospect. Here Captain
Sharon's bells fell on to a chiming, chiming
out their old tunes, over and over again
they rang out: "Make yourself friends!
Ah, no ! 'tis not too late—no! 'tis not too
late. For Christmas dreaming and Christmas
hearth, 'tis not too late—no ! 'tis not too
late!"

Only this time, so furiously so importunately
flinging Captain Sharon's music
abroad, that, when I looked on the scene
before me, and on all who were going and
coming with light hearts under their cloaks,
I felt of a sudden an intolerable yearning to
be of that happy company. Nor did that
possibility seem altogether so hopeless and
remote. "'Tis not too late—no!  'tis not too
late!" clanged the bells riotously. What if
I tried? Something seemed to whisper to
me, timidly, it could do no harm—perhaps no
good, perhaps a little good—and, as the
thought came upon me, I found my heart
beating faster, and my steps quickening as I
hurried along towards home. Such a home
as I might find within the bleak walls of the
Old Rodney Arms.

I had half made up my mind. With a
nervous fluttering, I laid out a sort of
programme; a dusky castle in the air. What
if I left the Old Rodney Arms far behind me,
and fled away through the broad English
lands northward journeying down to
Mytton Grange, the ancestral seat of the
Sherburnes? I half made up my mind; and,
one look at the bleak, whitened walls of the
Rodney Arms finished the work. I would go.

As I came to this resolve, the bells of
Captain Sharon ceased ringing and were
heard no more.

The night mail went down at half-past
eight o'clock; and, towards that hour I was on
the huge threshold of an iron-way that strikes
off north-westerly. Great was the bustle
that attended on the departure of that night
train. A great clatter, and in-driving and
out-driving by different gates, processionally.
A dazzling flare of lamps in long lines down
the platform, converging to points far away;
long lines of pillars; long lines of carriages,
first, second, and third, with wagons all
converging, also, to points afar off. Many
passengers by this night's mail north-
westerly, furnished with hairy rugs against
the cold of this Christmas night, with
courier-bags hung about them, following
their baggage now being trundled along the
platform. All mostly going down for the
Christmas. Men of business, men of politics,
men of law, hurrying down north-westerly
for the Christmas.

All through the long and weary darkness
the night mail went forward scouring broad
counties. All through the long and weary
night the dull lamp overhead cast down a
sickly light on the travellers sitting opposite
me, burrowed in their rugs, with heads sunk
down on their breasts, and coiled up in all
manner of strange attitudes, striving after
sleep. All through the darkness the night
train swept on; swooping through stations;
past long lines of flashing offices; past great
and dusky towns; past smelting-works, where
fire was bursting from the ground; past other
night trains swooping by; and past tall
chimneys and illuminated factories.

With sensible slackening of pace, and lifting
up of drowsy heads from folds of rugs to
let down the glass, and look forth on the
chilling night outside; with threading our
way among dark shadowy forms of huge
black engines hissing and hiding themselves
in clouds of their own damp vapour: with
flashes of lighthouse reflectors poured into us
suddenly, and gone the next instant; with
carriages gliding by, with lamps gliding by,
with signal-houses gliding by, we roll into a
flood of light, reflecting a waste of white
wall, glass-doors, with bare counters and
empty buffets within—all to the Gregorian
chant of porter-monks, intoning loudly,
Change here for a long bead-roll of places
utterly undistinguishable and unknown.

Some respite here for refection; a yellow
light suffusing the white walls; a clock-face
which tells it has just gone three; a file of
blinking travellers walking to and fro, and
the night-mail sets forward once more, plunging
into Erebus again. There are vacant
seats opposite, the drowsy figures having
been set down with their rugs at the last
halt. Two little boys, in wild spirits,
chattering of school sports and coming joys, going
homeward for Christmas holidays, are just