It was the Recording Angel.

He had a weary look; I judged him to be tired.
"Yes," he acknowledged, "it is a trying period for me, your Christmas time." "I am sure it must be," I returned; "the wonder to me is how you get through it all.

You see at Christmas time," I went on, "all we men and women become generous, quite suddenly.

It is really a delightful sensation." "You are to be envied," he agreed.
"It is the first Christmas number that starts me off," I told him; "those beautiful pictures--the sweet child looking so pretty in her furs, giving Bovril with her own dear little hands to the shivering street arab; the good old red-faced squire shovelling out plum pudding to the crowd of grateful villagers.

It makes me yearn to borrow a collecting box and go round doing good myself.
"And it is not only me--I should say I," I continued; "I don't want you to run away with the idea that I am the only good man in the world.
That's what I like about Christmas, it makes everybody good.