A third time the bell rang, and Aunt Annie, anathematizing the whole race of servants, got up, put the washing-book on the dressing-table, lighted the gas and turned it low, and descended to answer the door in person and to behead Sarah. More than an hour elapsed before either sister re-entered Henry's room--events on the ground-floor had been rather exciting--and then they appeared together, bearing a bird, and some mince-tarts on a plate, and a card. Henry was wide awake. 'This _is_ a surprise, dear,' began Mrs. Knight. 'Just listen: "With Sir George Powell's hearty greetings and best wishes for a speedy recovery!" A turkey and six mince-tarts. Isn't it thoughtful of him?' 'It's just like the governor,' said Henry, smiling, and feeling the tenderness of the turkey. 'He is a true gentleman,' said Aunt Annie. 'And we've sent round to the doctor to ask, and he says there's no harm in your having half a mince-tart; so we've warmed it. And you are to have a slice off the breast of the turkey to-morrow.' 'Good!' was Henry's comment. He loved a savoury mouthful, and these dainties were an unexpected bliss, for the ladies had not dreamt of Christmas fare in the sad crisis, even for themselves. Aunt Annie, as if struck by a sudden blow, glanced aside at the gas. 'I could have been certain I left the gas turned down,' she remarked. 'I turned it up,' said Henry. 'You got out of bed! Oh, Henry! And your temperature was a hundred and two only the day before yesterday!' 'I thought I'd begin that thing--just for a lark, you know,' he explained. He drew from under the bed-clothes the household washing-book. And there, nearly at the top of a page, were Aunt Annie's last interrupted strokes: '2 Ch----' and underneath: 'LOVE IN BABYLON' and the commencement of the tale. The marvellous man had covered nine pages of the washing-book. Within twenty-four hours, not only Henry, but his mother and aunt, had become entirely absorbed in Henry's tale. The ladies wondered how he thought of it all, and Henry himself wondered a little, too. It seemed to 'come,' without trouble and almost without invitation. It cost no effort. The process was as though Henry acted merely as the amanuensis of a great creative power concealed somewhere in the recesses of his vital parts. Fortified by two halves of a mince-tart and several slices of Sir George's turkey, he filled the washing-book full up before dusk on Christmas Day; and on Boxing Day, despite the faint admiring protests of his nurses, he made a considerable hole in a quire of the best ruled essay-paper. Instead of showing signs of fatigue, Henry appeared to grow stronger every hour, and to revel more and more in the sweet labour of composition; while the curiosity of the nurses about the exact nature of what Henry termed the denouement increased steadily and constantly. The desires of those friends who had wished a Happy Christmas to the household were generously gratified.