be no mere matters of dimension: when we come at last to find eternity and the angels, they are as like to be on a pin’s point as out-thronging all the labyrinth of the Milky Way. From the village store I moved on presently to the little sweetstuff shop, and stood awhile looking in through the holly-garlanded door. Susan sat in a wilderness of scalloped silver paper, presiding over a lucky tub. There was no getting near her to-night for the mob of children that surrounded her, and overflowed into the street; but she bawled me an affectionate Christmas greeting, and passed me, by half a dozen intervening hands—in exchange for a thrown halfpenny—a packet from the lucky-dip, which proved to contain a cherubim modelled out of pink scented soap. With this symbolic testimony to our old-time friendship bulging my pocket, I went rambling on again, and in course of time arrived at the Three Thatchers Inn. A tilt-cart was just driving away from the door. A numerous company was gathered outside, speeding the vehicle on its way with laugh and jest. ‘Ye’ve not fared so bad,’ roared old Daniel Dray, as he spied me in the darkness, ‘though ye didn’t come to th’ drawin’. Ye’ve got a topside, an’ a hand o’ pig-meat. Stall’ard here, he’s got wan o’ th’ turkeys, an’ young George Artlett th’ tother. A good club it ha’ been, considerin’. An’ now the lot o’ us ha’ got to bide here ’til Dan’l gets hoame from Stavisham wi’ th’ tack.’ This annual prize-drawing, and division of the Christmas Club funds, with the subsequent wait in the cosy inn parlour while the things were fetched from the town, was a great event in Windlecombe. On this one night in the year, we cultivated as a fine art the pleasure of anticipation, and each did his best to make the time go with mirth and neighbourly good-will. The occasion was also, in some degree, a kind of benefit for the landlord, to which all might contribute as a duty, if by any chance the inclination lacked. Looking round the crowded room, I could think of hardly one of the well-known faces that was missing. The old ferryman was there—how he got there was a mystery; but there he was, in the corner of the settle whence he had been absent so long. Even George Artlett had stayed to await the arrival of his turkey, and now sat at my side quaffing lemonade, his face as grave and thoughtful as ever, but his eyes twinkling with a jollity I had never seen in them before. Young Daniel knew that no one would desire to curtail this part of the prize-drawing ceremony, and there was little fear of his wheels being heard in the sloppy street for a good two hours to come. We stretched out our legs to the cheery blaze, and felt that for once we had succeeded in wing-clipping old Father Time. ‘Beef-club drawin’ agen, Dan’l!’ ‘Ay! beef-club drawin’ agen, Tom.’ In a break in the general clamour, the two veterans exchanged the thought slowly and pensively, looking down their long pipe-stems into the fire.