pered and became well to do; but whether that was the brownie’s work I’m sure I can’t say.”
Here the old dame began to wheeze and cough after the exertion of telling such a very long story. But when she had taken a pinch of snuff she got new life, and her tongue began to go again.
“My mother, who was a trustworthy wo- man, told me a story which happened here in this town, and on a Christmas Eve, too, and that I know to be true, for no false word ever came out of her mouth.”
“Oh, do let us hear it, Mrs. Skau!” said I.
“Tell it! tell it, Mother Skau!” roared out the children.
The old dame coughed a little, took another pinch, and began:
“When my mother was still a girl, she used go to see a widow whom she knew, and whose name — ah, what was her name — I can’t remem- ber, nor does it much matter; but she lived up in Mill Street, and was then a 'woman something over her best years. Well! it was on a Christmas Eve, as it might be this; and so this widow thought to herself she would go to the early ser- vice on Christmas morning, for she was a constant church-goer; and so she set out some coffee over- night, that she might have a cup of something warm before she went out in the cold. Well! she went to bed, and when she awoke the moon shone in upon the floor; and when she rose and
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looked at the clock, it had stopped, and the hands stood at half -past eleven. She didn't know at all what the right time was, but she went to the window and looked out at the church, and she saw lights shining through all the windows. So she called up her maid, made her boil the coffee while she dressed, and then she took her prayer- book and went across to the church. It was still as death out in the street, and she did not meet a soul on the way. When she got inside the church, she went to the seat where she always sat; but when she looked about her, she thought all the congregation looked so pale and strange, just as though they had been all dead bodies. There was no one she knew, but there were many she thought she had seen before, only she couldn’t call to mind where it was she had seen them. When the parson got into the pulpit, he was none of the parsons of the city parishes, but a tall pale man, and him too she thought she had seen some- where. Well, he preached a beautiful sermon, and there was none of that coughing and hem- ming so common at the early service on Christmas morning, but all was so still she could have heard a pin drop on the floor; so deadly still indeed, that she got quite nervous and afraid.
“Well, when they began to sing after the ser- mon, a woman who sat at her side, turned towards her and whispered in her ear:
“Untie your cloak, and go away; for if you wait till the service is over they’ll make an end of you. These are the dead , who are having their sendee'”
“Oh, I’m afraid, I’m afraid, Mother Skau,” sobbed one of the tiny ones, who crept up on a chair.
“Hush, hush, bairns!” said Mother Skau,
“only listen, and you’ll hear how she gets safe off.
“Well! the widow was as much afraid as you all are, for when she heard the voice and looked at the woman, she knew her at once; she had been her next door neighbour, but had been dead many a long year: and now, when she looked about the church, she remembered quite well that she had seen both the parson and many of the
congregation, and that they had all been dead long ago. She grew as cold as ice, so afraid was