He stood in the middle of his little grass plot and looked through his glass again. That night there was, so to say, nothing remote about the sky, save its distance. It had none of the reticence of clouds. It made you think of a bed of golden bells, each invisible stalk trying on its own account to help forward some Spring. As he had said, he did not know one star from another, nor a planet for a planet with a name. It had been years since he had seen the heavens so near. He moved about, looking, and passed the wall of leafless lilacs and mulberries. Stars hung in his boughs like fruit for the plucking. They patterned patches of sky. He looked away and back, and it was as if the stars repeated themselves, like the chorus of everything. "You beggars," Ebenezer said, "awful dressed up, ain't you? It must be for something up there--it ain't for anything down here, let me tell you." He went up to his dark back door. From without there he could hear Kate Kerr, his general servant, who had sufficient personality to compel the term "housekeeper," setting sponge for bread, with a slapping, hollow sound and a force that implied a frown for every down stroke of the iron spoon. He knew how she would turn toward the door as he entered, with her way of arching eyebrows, in the manner of one about to recite the symptoms of a change for the worse--or at best to say "about the same" to everything in the universe. And when Kate Kerr spoke, she always whispered on the faintest provocation. A sudden distaste for the entire inside of his house seized Ebenezer. He turned and wandered back down the little dark yard, looking up at the high field of the stars, with only his dim eyes. "There must be quite a little to know about them," he thought, "if anybody was enough interested." Then he remembered Simeon and Abel, and laughed again in his way. "I done the town a good turn for once, didn't I?" he thought; "I've fixed folks so's they can't spend their money fool!" Two steps from Ebenezer's front gate, Simeon and Abel overtook a woman. She had a long shawl over her head, and she was humming some faint air of her own making. "Coming to the meeting, Mary?" Simeon asked as they passed her. "No," said Mary Chavah, "I started for it. But it's such a nice night I'm going to walk around." "Things are going to go your way to that meeting, I guess," said Simeon; "ain't you always found fault with Christmas?" "They's a lot o' nonsense about it," Mary assented; "I don't ever bother myself much with it. Why?" "I donno but we'll all come round to your way of thinking to-night," said Simeon. "For just this year!" Abel Ames called back, as they went on. "You can't do much else, I guess," said Mary. "Everybody dips Christmas up out of their pocketbooks, and if there ain't nothing there, they can't dip."