theatres. Aunt Margaret had gone to Monaco and was not coming back, and Fred and his family were off to North Berwick for golf. 'After all, my dear Everard,' his brother concluded, Christmas is quite played out, and of course we shall expect you to dinner at the Hotel Magnifique on the twenty-fifth.'

Cobley consigned the Hotel Magnifique and all its splendours to a geological stratum below the Lewisian gneiss. 'I had rather eat my Christmas dinner in

'A railway train, for instance,' interposed his lordship hastily. Cobley always referred to that phrase as a possible instance of second sight. Lord Livingstone's mother was Scots.

When he had heard his friend's trouble Lord Livingstone pushed aside the State papers on the desk before him. In the face of so great a private sorrow he had no appetite for public work. For an hour or more he sought to console him trying to hit out a plan for his Christmas, but no inspiration came to either of them. Livingstone Hall was let and his lordship was to be in the doctor's hands at Buxton. Cobley was deeply grateful, but left his chief's presence as despondent as he had entered it, and Lord Livingstone shook his head sorrowfully over Cobley's misery as he strolled down Pall Mall to the Club.

He was lunching with the young Earl of Potash and the conversation-as talk often does-turned on the inner man and how best to secure comfort in that region without disaster. His companion happened to mention quails à la Chaponay, when Lord Livingstone sprang up from the table and called for some note-paper. A note having been thoughtfully worded, and sent off by special messenger, his lordship resumed his luncheon.

'It was your mention of quails made me think of him.' 'Think of whom?' asked his friend.

'John Honorius,' replied Lord Livingstone. You remember Cobley. Well, he is mad about Christmas-puddings-mince-pies -snap-dragon-and now he is in despair because there is no house party for him. I could not console him, but John Honorius can. I've never known him fail. To-morrow you will see an advertisement in the Daily Telegraph" Will J. H. call on Everard Cobley? Livingstone." If John Honorius is still alive, the thing is done.' 'But why not send him a wire ?' asked the mystified Earl.

'I do not know where he lives,' replied Lord Livingstone, 'nor indeed have I met anyone who does. We know that he reads the Telegraph and sets out to help and console those in distress.'

And what has this extraordinary friend of yours to do with quails?' asked his friend.

'Do you mean to say I never told you about John Honorius and the Quail of Ptomania?'

The young Earl shook his head in somewhat dismal expectation, but at the end of the story assured Lord Livingstone with evident sincerity that his tale absolutely took the biscuit.'

And when it was finished it was after three o'clock, and as it was too late to go back to the office Lord Livingstone left his friend and drove home to Kensington.

It was the evening of the 15th of December. A fog hung over Bloomsbury. Cobley, after a lonely dinner, sat wearily by the fire. He had himself decanted a bottle of 1878 Laffitte, but it had no savour for his sore heart. Still he poured it out mechanically and gulped it moodily. His mind went back to the Christmases of bygone years. When he was a little boy, and thirsted for cream and crackers. When he was fourteen, and drank healths in his first glass of champagne. When he was sixteen, and kissed his cousin Henrietta under the mistletoe and stole her sky-blue hairribbon and slept with it under his pillow. The ghosts of his formerselves and the wraiths of forgotten Christmases hung round his foggy dreams. And here he was, an old fogey, alone and forgotten; and there was his cousin Henrietta Fulshaw, a widow, also alone in the world; and though to-day they were still cousins and friends, it seemed a pity that years ago the first romance of his life had not materialised. For now,' he said to himself, I am derelict and alone, and no one will ever bid me to a Christmas party again.' And at that moment-truth being the stranger-in he came, a little figure of an old man with a wealth of white hair, a neatly cut beard, a kindly smile and under his arm a fiddle-case.

'Peace be to this flat,' he said in a mellow voice, using his thoughtful brown eyes as a search-light into Cobley's soul. And tell me,' he added softly. 'Where do you spend Christmas?'

'I do not spend Christmas,' said Cobley with tragic gloom, 'Christmas is spent.'

The old man shook his head with a negative of solemn laughter.

And who are you, sir?' asked Cobley.

'John Honorius, a friend of your friend Livingstone. I come to bring you comfort.'

Cobley waved comfort aside with one hand and with the other

pushed the decanter towards his guest deprecatingly, saying, 'It is only seventy-eight.'

'Thank you,' replied John Honorius, but not to-night. We have to think this out. Remember the words of my great ancestor in the "Book of Sayings": "Drink is a Solution, but not the only one." Come, tell me all your sorrows.'

Then John Honorius snapped out the electric light and they sat in the rosy fire-glow, and Cobley wandered forth into the past and produced it at any length in stories of old Christmases he could remember, and the little man picked out his fiddle and illuminated Cobley's tales with carols and hymns until the last drop of Laffitte was drained and Everard Cobley was glorified by the betterment of sympathy and wine.

6

If John Honorius had pride in his disposition it sprang from a sense of the abnormal strength of his power of listening. He remembered the wisdom of the Book' wherein it is written' There is more sympathy in the Ear than the Tongue'; and again,' Learn to absorb the out-pourings of the Sorrowful: it is Comfort.'

The clock in the hall chimed twelve and was dimly echoed from neighbouring churches.

'Christmas is begun,' said John Honorius joyfully.

What do you mean?' asked Cobley.

'To-day, in the Prayer-Book Calendar, is O Sapientia, the 16th December, and the learned Dr. Parr opined that on this day Christmas began and you might honestly eat a Christmas Pie.'

'I would have ordered mince-pies had I known.'

'Christmas Pies, if you love me, unless you would be thought a Puritan.'

Cobley accepted the correction, and knew he was in the presence of a Master who honoured the ritual of Christmas.

And John Honorius took the hand of his acolyte and they swore a bond to begin Christmas that morning and to see it through until Twelfth Night, when the feast ends.

'For I would go anywhere with you, little man,' said Cobley endearingly, since I can see that you are a good sort and love Christmas. But what are we to do?'

'You know Brander, the Official Trustee?'

Cobley nodded.

'He is troubled about two orphan children. Heaps of money and a fine place in Scotland, Castle Grample. Now I have promised to go and give the poor things a real Christmas. I want

you to come with me. They have no uncle. You cannot have a real Christmas without an uncle. I cast you for the part. Will you come?'

'Agreed!' cried Cobley joyfully.

right.

Five-thirty Euston on Christmas Eve, remember!'

Right!' said Cobley, for at that moment anything seemed

And John Honorius, by way of oblation as it were to seal the contract, drew out of the long pocket of his coat a paper bag of Christmas Pies, and the warm aroma that stole out into the room drew tears of joy to the lips of Cobley expectant.

'Where did you buy these?' he asked, as he finished the third with a sigh of satisfaction.

'They were not bought,' said John Honorius, simply, they were created.'

And Cobley ate the last of them with closed eyes in reverent silence.

It was after five o'clock on Christmas Eve. The snow was drifting and whirling along the dry pavements. Cobley, punctual, found a carriage engaged for John Honorius and he stamped about the platform to keep himself warm, bought all the Christmas numbers, tipped all the guards, inspectors, and porters within reach, and now he was wrapped in his rug in his favourite corner and it wanted but three minutes to the hour of departure and there was no John Honorius. It was an absurd position, for he did not even know the station he was bound for.

As he was wondering what course he should pursue he saw running along the platform a real Father Christmas with a large white beard, a rosy face and bushy eyebrows wearing the orthodox long red coat trimmed with white fur sprinkled with real snow and on his head a soft pointed cowl. In his arms he hugged a large Christmas tree and he was followed by half a dozen porters laden. with boxes of all sizes, basses of fish, turkeys and geese, barrels of oysters, and hampers of wine. He came along to Cobley's carriage in breathless haste.

'You can't get in here, sir, this carriage is engaged,' objected Cobley.

'You'll be engaged before you get back home, perhaps,' said the Father genially as he pushed his way in and thrust his Christmas tree on the rack above Cobley's head. On Christmas Eve I go wherever I like.'

The porters hurled the parcels and hampers into the carriage. Father Christmas threw them a handful of shillings and the train moved slowly out of the station.

'Narrow squeak, but I forgot the crackers and had to go back for them,' said the old man pulling a big fur rug over his knees. The steward of the dining-car put his head in from the corridor and grinned with delight at Cobley's companion.

'Any gentlemen for dinner at seven?'

Any dinner for gentlemen at seven? I know the cook on this train. Under guidance, he is not impossible. You send him to me.'

'If you know our cook, sir, you'll know that he's a Welshman, and since the present government came in he thinks no small potatoes of himself. I don't think it's much good my telling him. to come along here, sir.'

'You do as you are told,' said Father Christmas, giving him a couple of half-crowns. Get a basket of holly and mistletoe out of the van and decorate the dining-car, and tell my little friend Taffy to come and see me, John Honorius, about the dinner.'

'My dear sir,' said Cobley seizing him by the hand. 'Splendid. I didn't know you.'

'Now that flatters my vanity,' said Honorius smiling. 'It isn't half bad, is it?' and he peeped proudly in the long glass below the rack. Sorry we had to travel on Christmas Eve, but it couldn't be helped, and we will do our best to keep it properly. When I had arranged with you for an uncle I had to find an aunt for the children. She went forward yesterday. Holloa! Here is our friend Taffy.'

'Dear me, but it is good to see you,' said the little cook, wringing him by the hand. I tell you this, sir,' he went on, turning to Cobley. When Mr. Honorius stayed in our little inn at Penillion he taught my Mother to cook swedes and Mother would not eat them for a long time, for she said they were only fit for cattle and sheep. "Call them by a long name, call them rutabaga," says he, “and make them into soup." So Mother did that and said they were sent home to her by John Henry, who was at sea. And people came miles to taste our rutabaga soup, and there was a lot of talk about it, I tell you. And Mother wanted to send Mary Ellen, our maid, away from the house; but I didn't want her to go. So Mary Ellen she threatened to tell the visitors all about this wonderful vegetable they made into soup which John Henry sent