The old clock warned the hour with a staggering click, and its clear metallic voice had rung out but six of the twelve hours, when we heard a footfall on the carpet of snow in the yard. There was no murmur of voices, none of the hawking and tuning and chuntering of a band of lads and lasses, but right out upon the still air, firm, strong and deep baritone, as from a singer well set up and fearless, music of itself, and with instrument neither of string nor reed to back it, came the grand old words and tune, like which no other words and tune do ever stir my heart-- "Christians awake! Salute the happy morn, Whereon the Saviour of Mankind was born. Rise to adore the mystery of love Which hosts of angels chanted from above; With them the joyful tidings first begun Of God Incarnate and the Virgin's Son." And then again-- "Of God Incarnate and the Virgin's Son." Who could it be? Some lone wanderer surely that had stolen a march on church and chapel alike. "It's happen 'Siah," hazarded Martha. No 'Siah had a voice like a frog. "It's th' sexton," said my father. Now the sexton was sixty years old, with a piping treble, and the voice of our midnight visitor was rounded, full and mellow. I looked to Mary for a hazard, for no thought of who it could be came to my mind, and I was not best pleased that anyone should outstrip the choirs. And as I looked the voice without took up another strain. "Then to the watchful shepherds it was told Who heard the Angelic herald's voice 'Behold.'" And Mary's face was a sight to see. She had dropped her knitting on her lap, and her hands were crossed over the work, and her face was as though the morning sun shone on it, and a soft smile was on her parted lips, a look half-glad, half sorry, was in her eyes and her bosom seemed to flutter. "It's George," she said, very softly, "George Mellor, fra' th' Brigg." And then came a thundering knock at the door, and my father rose to open it right heartily, and in came my cousin, George Mellor, with a great red muffler round his neck, and his coat all flaked with snow, and his short brown beard and moustache wet with half-melted flakes; now stamping his feet and now kicking them against the door-post, and bringing with him a gust of cold air and a sprinkling of tiny feathery sprays that whisked in at his back. "A merry Christmas to you, Uncle William, and a happy New Year." "And to you, aunt, with my mother's love." This with a hearty smacking kiss. "And to you, Mary, and here's a Christmas Box for you," and I thought George would have kissed Mary too, but she was away to the other side of the table. And so all round, with a noble smack at Martha's lips, Martha being nothing loth, and giving kiss for kiss with a good will that set us all laughing. "A right proper lad is George Mellor, and knows how to win a lass," I heard Martha tell 'Siah afterwards, when she was rating him by way of curing his aching head.