“So old, so feeble and so lonely!” went on Mr. Pitt, almost pathetically--“When he refused to do anything for your assistance, Dove, I was inclined to be very plain-spoken and give him a bit of my mind, even at the risk of offending him,--but seeing what a forlorn old wreck he seemed, with his shrivelled body and wrinkled face, I thought it was no use being angry with him,--especially at Christmas-time! He’s not long for this world!” Again the Goblin nudged Josiah’s arm and its fiery eyes glowed with railway-signal brilliancy. “It’s not exactly age that will kill him,”--went on Pitt, meditatively--“He’s not seventy yet, and ought to look much healthier and stronger than he does. My father is eighty-two, and is as well set-up a veteran as anyone could wish to see--walks his six miles a day, and is as young in heart as a boy--but of course he has always lived a very simple life and never hankered after more money than just as much as would keep him going and save him from debt. Mr. McNason has all the cares of an immense business on his brain--and naturally a break-down must come sooner or later----” He ceased. A gust of wind roared down the chimney, throwing the flames of the little fire crookedly to and fro. Mrs. Dove shivered, and looked about her uneasily. “What a stormy night!” she said--“Not at all a peaceful Christmas!” Her husband, lying restfully back in his chair, smiled at her. “The peace must be in our hearts, Jennie!” he said--“If we don’t keep Christmas _there_, it’s no Christmas at all! Storm or calm, it’s a blessed time!--a time of thanksgiving--a time of hope!” “So it is,”--agreed Pitt--“and so may it always be! Now, Mrs. Dove, bring out a bottle of that old port your good doctor sent you the other day, and we’ll drink to Willie’s recovery and health and general usefulness! And we’ll wish old McNason a Merry Christmas, too!” They all laughed, and Mrs. Dove set the wine and glasses on the table. Mr. Pitt poured out the ruby-red cordial, and raising his own glass to his lips said: “A Merry Christmas to you, Mrs. Dove! A Merry Christmas to you, Willie! And to our grim and gaunt old governor, Mr. McNason, a Merry Christmas also! And may he find something better than riches in the next world and be all the happier for the finding!” They all three drank this toast, and while they drank, Josiah McNason trembled in every limb with an ague of exceeding cold. Was he so near death, he wondered, that even Pitt could see the near approach of his end? He turned his miserable eyes upon the Goblin, who grinned.