e to countermand the call for an encore which they
neither desire or deserve.

The hall door closed with a bang on Bertie's guests, and the sounds of
merriment became faint and muffled to the weary watchers at the other end
of the garden. Presently two ominous pops, in quick succession, made
themselves distinctly heard.

"They've got at the champagne!" exclaimed Mrs. Steffink.

"Perhaps it's the sparkling Moselle," said Luke hopefully.

Three or four more pops were heard.

"The champagne _and_ the sparkling Moselle," said Mrs. Steffink.

Luke uncorked an expletive which, like brandy in a temperance household,
was only used on rare emergencies. Mr. Horace Bordenby had been making
use of similar expressions under his breath for a considerable time past.
The experiment of "throwing the young people together" had been prolonged
beyond a point when it was likely to produce any romantic result.

Some forty minutes later the hall door opened and disgorged a crowd that
had thrown off any restraint of shyness that might have influenced its
earlier actions. Its vocal efforts in the direction of carol singing
were now supplemented by instrumental music; a Christmas-tree that had
been prepared for the children of the gardener and other household
retainers had yielded a rich spoil of tin trumpets, rattles, and drums.
The life-story of King Wenceslas had been dropped, Luke was thankful to
notice, but it was intensely irritating for the chilled prisoners in the
cow-house to be told that it was a hot time in the old town to-night,
together with some accurate but entirely superfluous information as to
the imminence of Christmas morning. Judging by the protests which began
to be shouted from the upper windows of neighbouring houses the
sentiments prevailing in the cow-house were heartily echoed in other
quarters.

The revellers found their car, and, what was more remarkable, managed to
drive off in it, with a parting fanfare of tin trumpets. The lively beat
of a drum disclosed the fact that the master of the revels remained on
the scene.

"Bertie!" came in an angry, imploring chorus of shouts and screams from
the cow-house window.

"Hullo," cried the owner of the name, turning his rather errant steps in
the direction of the summons; "are you people still there? Must have
heard everything cows got to say by this time. If you haven't, no use
waiting. After all, it's a Russian legend, and Russian Chrismush Eve not
due fo