hard, lined with pure silver, brilliant. He looked at it closely.
So--this was what it was. And this was the end of it. He felt the
curious soft explosion of its breaking still in his ears. He threw
his piece in the fire.

"Pick all the bits up," he said. "Give over! give over! Don't cry
any more." The good-natured tone of his voice quieted the child, as
he intended it should.

He went away into the back kitchen to wash himself. As he was bending
his head over the sink before the little mirror, lathering to shave,
there came from outside the dissonant voices of boys, pouring out the
dregs of carol-singing.

"While Shep-ep-ep-ep-herds watched--"

He held his soapy brush suspended for a minute. They called this
singing! His mind flitted back to early carol music. Then again
he heard the vocal violence outside.

"Aren't you off there!" he called out, in masculine menace. The noise
stopped, there was a scuffle. But the feet returned and the voices
resumed. Almost immediately the door opened, boys were heard muttering
among themselves. Millicent had given them a penny. Feet scraped
on the yard, then went thudding along the side of the house, to the
street.

To Aaron Sisson, this was home, this was Christmas: the unspeakably
familiar. The war over, nothing was changed. Yet everything changed.
The scullery in which he stood was painted green, quite fresh, very