tempted, saved up until now, and sat down with it by the fire, the
only light she had. When the housemaid, suddenly remembering she must
put her to bed, and at the same time discovering it was a whole hour
past her usual time, hurried to the nursery, she found her fast asleep
in her little armchair, her book on her lap, and the fire
self-consumed into a dark cave with a sombre glow in its deepest
hollows. Dreams had doubtless come to deepen the impressions of sermon
and _maehrchen_, for as she slowly yielded to the hands of Polly
putting her to bed, her lips, unconsciously moved of the slumbering
but not sleeping spirit, more than once murmured the words _Lord
loveth_ and _chasteneth_. Right blessedly would I enter the dreams of
such a child--revel in them, as a bee in the heavenly gulf of a
cactus-flower.




CHAPTER V.


On Christmas Eve the church bells were ringing through the murky air
of London, whose streets lay flaring and steaming below. The brightest
of their constellations were the butchers' shops, with their shows of
prize beef; around them, the eddies of the human tides were most
confused and knotted. But the toy-shops were brilliant also. To Phosy
they would have been the treasure-caves of the Christ-child--all
mysteries, all with insides to them--boxes, and desks, and windmills,
and dove-cots, and hens with chickens, and who could tell what all? In
every one of those shops her eyes would have searched for the
Christ-child, the giver of all their wealth. For to her he was