The usual Christmas bustle and excitement prevailed in the little household next morning. The children ecstatically compared notes over their fruit and toys; the sexton himself was quite unaccountably jovial, with a nervous kind of joviality nevertheless, hardly venturing to glance in Mrs. Sibley’s direction. She, on her side, wore a sedate, not to say chastened, aspect, and was attired in her deepest “weeds”. Foyle’s jocularity diminished after a time, and he set off for the churchyard in a depressed and uncomfortable frame of mind. What was the woman driving at--what more in the name of goodness could she want? He paced up and down the path nearest the gate for some time, and then, suddenly recalling the fact that he had not yet attended to the stove connected with the heating apparatus of the church, hurried off to accomplish this duty. On his return he descried a tall figure in black making its way, not towards him, but towards that portion of the churchyard wherein reposed the mortal remains of the lamented Mr. Sibley. After some hesitation the sexton followed, and Mrs. Sibley, having deposited a wreath of evergreens on the grave, turned round with a mournful expression. “At such times as these, Mr. Foyle,” she remarked, “the mind do nat’rally feel m’urnful.” “True, true!” agreed the sexton uncomfortably. “He was a good husband, Mr. Foyle,” said the widow in a melancholy tone. “To be sure,” said John doubtfully. “I shall never look upon his like again,” resumed Mrs. Sibley, shaking her head. The sexton glanced from her disconsolate face to the wreath of evergreens, and then back again. Mrs. Sibley was still shaking her head with an air of gentle resignation. “I think I’ll be goin’,” said Mr. Foyle with sudden desperation. “I thought you did step out to this ’ere churchyard with another intention.” Mrs. Sibley glanced at him in mild surprise. “Ye didn’t chance to get no letter this marnin’, I s’pose?” continued the sexton with some heat. “A letter!” repeated Mrs. Sibley. “E-es, the letter what I did put in your stockin’ for a surprise,” added John emphatically. Mrs. Sibley’s melancholy vanished as by magic; she smiled on the sexton, not only affably, but positively coyly. “An’ it _was_ a surprise!” she exclaimed, “it _was_ indeed. E-es, Mr. Foyle.” She paused again, and then, all scruples apparently vanquished by the delicacy of John’s attitude, she extended a bony hand from beneath the folds of her black shawl. “That’s why I’m here,” she said. THE CALL OF THE WOODS.