On the side of the mountain, away from the village street, perched the little hut of Grandfather Viaud. And here, on Christmas Eve, sat the old man and his wife, looking very sad and lonely. For there was no sound of childish laughter in the little hut, no patter of small feet, no whispering of Christmas secrets. The little Viauds had long since grown up and flown away to build nests of their own in far-off countries. Poor Josef Viaud and old Bettine were quite alone this Christmas Eve, save for the Saint Bernard dog who was stretched out before the fire, covering half the floor with his huge bulk, like a furry¹ rug. He was the very Prince of dogs, as his name betokened², and he was very good to Grandfather and Grandmother, who loved him dearly. But on Christmas Eve even the littlest cottage, crowded with the biggest tenants³, seems lonely unless there are children in the corners.

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The Viauds sat silently gazing into the fire, with scarcely a word for each other, scarcely a caress⁴ for faithful Prince. Indeed, the great dog himself seemed to know that something was lacking, and every once in a while would lift his head and whine⁵ wistfully.

 

In each of the two small windows burned a row of candles, flickering⁶ in the draught⁷ that blew down the great chimney and swept through the little chamber⁸. And these, with the crackling blaze upon the hearth⁹, sent queer shadows quivering up the smoky walls.

 

Grandfather Viaud looked over his shoulder as a great gust¹⁰ blew the ashes into the room. "Hey!" he cried. "I almost fancied the shadow of one looking in at the window. Ha, ha! What foolishness! Eh! but it is a fearsome storm. Pray the good Lord that there may be no poor creatures wandering on the mountain this night."

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