"Never mind Juxon," quoth John to himself, "it is Christmas day!" At the vicarage and elsewhere, all over the land, those things were done which delight the heart of Englishmen at the merry season.

Everybody shook hands with everybody else, everybody cried "Merry Christmas!" to his neighbour in the street, with an intonation as though he were saying something startlingly new and brilliant which had never been said before.
Every labourer who had a new smock-frock put it on, and those who had none had at least a bit of new red worsted comforter about their throats and began the day by standing at their doors in the cold morning, smoking a "ha'p'orth o' shag" in a new clay pipe, greeting each other across the village street.

Muggins, who had spent a portion of the night in exchanging affectionate Christmas wishes with the tombstones in the churchyard, appeared fresh and ruddy at an early hour, clad in the long black coat and tall hat which he was accustomed to wear when he drove Mr.
Boosey's fly on great festivals.

Most of the cottages in the single street sported a bit of holly in their windows, and altogether the appearance of Billingsfield was singularly festive and mirthful.

At precisely ten minutes to eleven the vicar and Mrs.Ambrose, accompanied by John, issued from the vicarage and went across the road by the private path to the church.