grandchildren; but he never was able to decide which of the two was
the more beautiful--the Christmas Tree of his dream, or the Spruce Fir
as it stood in the loveliness of that winter night.

This is told, not that it has anything to do with any of the Three
Christmas Trees, but to show that the story is a happy one, as is right
and proper; that the hero lived, and married, and had children, and was
as prosperous as good people, in books, should always be.

Of course he died at last. The best and happiest of men must die; and
it is only because some stories stop short in their history, that every
hero is not duly buried before we lay down the book.

When death came for our hero he was an old man. The beloved wife, some
of his children, and many of his friends had died before him, and of
those whom he had loved there were fewer to leave than to rejoin. He
had had a short illness, with little pain, and was now lying on his
deathbed in one of the big towns in the North of England. His youngest
son, a clergy-man, was with him, and one or two others of his children,
and by the fire sat the doctor.

The doctor had been sitting by the patient, but now that he could do no
more for him he had moved to the fire; and they had taken the ghastly,
half-emptied medicine bottles from the table by the bedside, and had
spread it with a fair linen cloth, and had set out the silver vessels
of the Supper of the Lord. The old man had been "wandering" somewhat
during the day. He had talked much of going home to the old country,
and with the wide range of dying thoughts he had seemed to mingle
memories of childhood with his hopes of Paradise. At intervals he was
clear and collected--one of those moments had been chosen for his last