on a day like this,
_nothing_ seems to matter."

And then suddenly he knew that he was wrong, for he had discovered what
it was which he had told himself not to forget ... what it was which he
had indeed forgotten.

And suddenly the birds stopped singing and there was a bitter chill in
the air.

And the sun went violently out.

* * * * *

He was wearing only half-a-pair of spats.

THREE STORIES

XIX. THE MAKING OF A CHRISTMAS STORY

Yuletide!

London at Yuletide!

A mantle of white lay upon the Embankment, where our story opens,
gleaming and glistening as it caught the rays of the cold December sun;
an embroidery of white fringed the trees; and under a canopy of white
the proud palaces of Savoy and Cecil reared their silent heads. The
mighty river in front was motionless, for the finger of Death had laid
its icy hand upon it. Above--the hard blue sky stretching to eternity;
below--the white purity of innocence. London in the grip of winter!

(~Editor.~ _Come, I like this. This is going to be good. A cold day was
it not?_

~Author.~ _Very._)

All at once the quiet of the morning was disturbed. In the distance a
bell rang out, sending a joyous p