CHAPTER XXXI. 



CHRISTMAS DAY IN THE " FOREST OF ARDEN." 



THE bells are pealing for the afternoon mass as I step 

 out of the gate of the old chateau. I do not think I 

 ever recollect such a perfect Christmas, and not often 

 so fine a winter day. The cloudless sky is of a deep 

 dark blue, in which the winter sun shines brightly, but 

 with little power, for the thermometer shows five 

 degrees of frost. I walk briskly up the stone-paved 

 street down which the congregation are hastening to 

 church. Such a day would invest a commonplace 

 scene with beauty, and very picturesque the brightly 

 coloured houses and the ruined old feudal castle high 

 above them look to-day. Ten minutes takes me past 

 the little houses nestling under the great rocks, and 

 turning up a by-path I enter the forest. My 

 dachshunds, who always share my rambles in the 

 woods (thanks to a friendly forester, for it is contrary 

 to the law), dash into the cover and try in vain to pick 

 up a scent. The frost is too hard for that. The 

 beech and oak-trees shoot straight up here without a 

 branch for many feet, owing to the local custom of 

 lopping the lower branches. Beneath my feet is a 

 carpet of dead leaves, frozen so hard that my footsteps 



