“Oh, yes, he had plenty more of everything. And when he got to the house where Groups and Bunks and Yelpers lived, he slid down the chimney and took a look round. He didn't see any crumbs on the floor, or any toys lying about not put away, so he filled the stockings with all kinds of lovely things, and an aunbile and an elphunt and a typewriter.” “What did the puppies say?” they inquired. “They were sound asleep upstairs, and didn't know anything about it until Christmas morning. Come on now, it's time for bed.” “We can undress ourselves now,” said Groups. “Will you tuck me in?” said Bunks. “You're sure he had another typewriter in his bag?” said Yelpers. They scrambled upstairs. Later, when the house was quiet, Gissing went out to the kitchen to see Mrs. Spaniel. She was diligently rolling pastry, and her nose was white with flour. “Oh, sir, I'm glad you got home in time for Christmas,” she said. “The children were counting on it. Did you have a successful trip, sir?” “Every trip is successful when you get home again,” said Gissing. “I suppose the shops will be open late to-night, won't they? I'm going to run down to the village to get some toys.” Before leaving the house, he went down to the cellar to see if the furnace was all right. He was amazed to see how naturally and cheerfully he had slipped back into the old sense of responsibility. Where was the illusory freedom he had dreamed of? Even the epiphany on the hilltop now seemed a distant miracle. That fearful happiness might never come again. And yet here, among the familiar difficult minutiae of home, what a lightness he felt. A great phrase from the prayer-book came to his mind--“Whose service is perfect freedom.” Ah, he said to himself, it is all very well to wear a crown of thorns, and indeed every sensitive creature carries one in secret. But there are times when it ought to be worn cocked over one ear. He opened the furnace door. A bright glow filled the fire-box: he could hear a stir and singing in the boiler, and the rustle of warm pipes that chuckled quietly through winter nights of storm. Over the coals hovered a magic evasive flicker, the very soul of fire. It was a Pentecostal flame, perfect and heavenly in tint, the essence of pure colour, a clear immortal blue. THE END End of Project Gutenberg's Where the Blue Begins, by Christopher Morley