ELEVENTH SCENE.
Outside the House
The evening was chilly, but not cold for the time of year. There was no
moon. The stars were out, and the wind was quiet. Upon the whole, the
inhabitants of the little Somersetshire village of Baxdale agreed that
it was as fine a Christmas-eve as they could remember for some years
past.
Toward eight in the evening the one small street of the village was
empty, except at that part of it which was occupied by the public-house.
For the most part, people gathered round their firesides, with an eye to
their suppers, and watched the process of cooking comfortably indoors.
The old bare, gray church, situated at some little distance from the
village, looked a lonelier object than usual in the dim starlight. The
vicarage, nestling close under the shadow of the church-tower, threw
no illumination of fire-light or candle-light on the dreary scene. The
clergyman's shutters fitted well, and the clergyman's curtains were
closely drawn. The one ray of light that cheered the wintry darkness
streamed from the unguarded window of a lonely house, separated from
the vicarage by the whole length of the church-yard.
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