For the first time in two days, Melissa addressed herself to Mr. Diggs. Her lip trembled and there were tears lying close to the surface of her eyes. She told the butler, in smothered tones, that she had decided to remain in the employ of Mr. Bingle as long as he needed her services, and that she would have to return his ring. She could not marry him—at least not at present, nor for a long time perhaps. The children refused to go to bed unless Melissa told them a story. She collected them in the nursery—the lame, the halt and the half- blind—and very meekly inquired what kind of a story they would have.

"The one about Peter Pan," said Henrietta.

"No! Tell us a new one about the piruts," cried Wilberforce.

"A ghost story, 'Lissie," chimed in Harold, aged five. "Scare me good and hard, so's I can sleep with Freddy to-night."

"It's not the right kind of a night for a ghost story," said Melissa, her eyes going over the group with a strange, sweet compassion in their depths. "The wind ought to be howling with blood-curdling glee and the will-o'-the-wisp ought to be a-hoppin' in the swamp. There ought to be a graveyard close by—and some skeletons standing just outside the winders, trying to look in upon us through their eyeless sockets."

"Let's imagine 'em," said Frederick.

"I want to huddle, 'Lissie," lisped Rosemary. "It's fun to huddle."

"You'll be discharged if you fill these kids up with any more of those yarns of yours," said Stokes, the nurse-maid, languidly looking up from the book she was reading.

"I guess not," said Melissa, rather grimly. "My job's safe, no matter what I do or don't do. Go on with your reading, Miss Stokes. Your worries are almost over. Mine are just beginning. Huddle up close, Rosemary—I'm going to begin."

"I'm huddled," shivered Rosemary, crawling under Melissa's sheltering arm.

"Now, this is a true story," began Melissa wearily. The children had drawn close about her. "It's an honest true one about a ghost that used to ha'nt my great-grandfather. My great-grandfather owned a beautiful castle in France not far from Nice." She pronounced it with the long sound of the vowel, and was promptly corrected by Marie Louise. "I said it was my great-grandfather, not my niece," said the storyteller sharply. "Well, onct upon a time he was engaged in a war— the Communism war, I think it was. In the heat of battle one day he cut off a great general's head, just like that. Goodness, don't jump so, Rosemary! It rolled down a hill, bumpety-bump, swearing all the way. You see, he was a very great general and was allowed to swear all he pleased. He got his head cut off, so there's a warning for you boys never to swear. Well, Grandpa got off of his fiery steed and looked everywhere for the corpse's head. He had the body all right, but what good was a body without a head? He couldn't find it anywhere. The rest of the army came up and helped in the search, but 'twasn't any use. That general's head had disappeared as if by magic. At first it was thought they might trace it by the cuss-words it was uttering, but you see by this time everybody was swearing, so it was like looking for a needle in a haystack. They kept on hunting for nearly a week, because Grandpa wanted to send that feller's head to his widow, so's she could give it a decent burial and also get the insurance. He—"

"And so's she could get married again," broke in Frederick.

"Exactly. Well, after the war was over, Grandpa he went back to his castle to rest up for the next war, and to have his sword sharpened and his petard fixed. One dark night he was a-setting in his ante-room pondering over the past and wondering what had become of that feller's head—and also what had become of his widder, who was a most bewitching creature and would make any man a most desirable wife, especially if he didn't have one already—which Grandpa didn't. All of a sudden he heard a voice speaking to him as if from a graveyard. It said 'Good evenin', Duke!' Did I tell you my great-grandpa was a duke? Well, he was. 'Good evenin', Duke,' said the voice, coming from nowhere in—"

"Did it say it twice?" demanded Reginald.

"Four or five times," said Melissa; "because Grandpa wasn't sure he heard it the first time. He looked everywhere. Finally he saw it. It was perched right there on his knee—a awful, horrid, bluggy head with its moustache twisted up like Swanson's on Sunday. It—Oh, Lordy!"

Mr. Bingle entered the nursery. The children stared at him as if at the long-expected ghost, open-mouthed and wide-eyed. His sandy, greyish hair which of late had been trained to lie quite sleek and precise across the widening bald-spot, was now in a state of wild disorder. It stood out "every which way," according to Melissa's subsequent description, and lent to his appearance an aspect of fierceness that was almost inconceivable. Somehow they were all surprised when this sinister figure spoke, for his voice was kind and gentle, and not at all what one might have looked for in a maniac.

"Well, well, here we are. Isn't it time you all were in bed? Off with you, like good boys and girls. Daddy won't be able to come up to see that you're tucked in to-night. I'll say good night to you now. Melissa, will you and Stokes come down to the library as soon as you've got them to bed? And please tell the other nurse-maids to come also. I don't happen to see them about anywhere. I suppose it is a general night out. I have something important to say to you all. Please be as spry as possible. I want to get it over with."

Half an hour later, Mr. Bingle received his servants in the library. It was to be noted that his hair was smoothly brushed. With him in the room was a young man who was recognised by a few of the servants as Mr. Epps, a clerk from the lawyers' offices. From Diggs down to the boy whose sole duty it was to feed the robins and squirrels in the park—all were there, a curious and strangely depressed assemblage.

The master, in a quiet, unemotional voice at once stated the object of the meeting. He had called them together for the purpose of giving them the required two weeks' notice, and also to pay them in full their wages up to the twentieth of the month. They were at liberty to go, however, as soon as they liked, but he desired them to know that it would be with his best wishes for their future. A letter of recommendation would be found attached to each pay envelope. He regretted exceedingly that it was not in his power to supplement this last payment by the addition of a well-deserved present to each of his faithful servitors. Circumstances over which he had no control made it impossible for him to give them more than the stipulated amount. In concluding a brief, simple tribute to their loyalty as servants and an expression of his sincere regret that they were so soon to part company, Mr. Bingle said:

"You see before you, my friends, a man who is poorer than any one of you. Yesterday I was a rich man, to-day I am as poor as Job's turkey. Poorer, if anything, for Job's turkey at least possessed a home, such as it was. To-morrow I shall receive official notification that Seawood and all that goes with it, real and personal, is no longer mine. The law has said so, and I must abide by the decision of the highest court in the land.

"The Supreme Court has finally handed down its decision in the case of Hooper et al. vs. Bingle. I am not the rightful heir. Joseph H. Hooper was not acting within his rights when he disposed of his privately acquired fortune. His children were acting within their rights when they disowned him, scorned him, kicked him out of their lives. It has been decided that my uncle was not competent to dispose of his property, and that I, his conniving nephew, influenced him by craft, wiliness, duplicity and so forth to such an extent that he gave his money to me instead of to those who should have received it. The Supreme Court declares that all of the lower courts erred in not admitting testimony to prove that my uncle DESIRED to leave his fortune to his children, even after he had made his last will in my favour.

"It may interest you to know that 'The Christmas Carol' had a great deal to do with the decision. The lower courts refused to hear evidence to the effect that after making his will he wrote a letter to each of his children, over his own signature, in which he stated that upon reading the carol he was so impressed with the sermon it preached that he was more than willing to let bygones be bygones and to give to his children all of his fortune, in equal shares, expressing the hope, however, that they would be governed by the same noble book in compensating his beloved nephew, Thomas Bingle, and so on and so forth. If they would take him back into their lives, he would forget and forgive. Of course, no attention was paid to these letters at the time, because he was supposed to be penniless. They only went to show that he was mentally unbalanced. In the original trials, these letters were introduced. The Christmas Carol was also offered as one of the exhibits, and it was allowed to stick. When the story was read in open court, every one sniffled, even the judge. The jury almost bellowed. 'As it was allowed to remain in the record, I've no doubt the Supreme Bench wept a little over Tiny Tim. In its decision the Supreme Court refers quite freely to the story and its effect on the old gentleman. I shall not go into the history of the case. It would not be of interest to you. It is only necessary for me to repeat that I shall be penniless. Seawood must be turned over to the rightful owners. I don't mind admitting that I have never really felt that it belonged to me. I have always thought that Joseph Hooper's millions belonged to his children, mean as they are.

"But that is neither here nor there. My lawyers would not consent to my believing anything that they didn't want me to believe. I don't own a dollar in the world, however, except the wages due to you, my faithful servants. These wages are to be paid to you to-night by Mr. Epps, who has cashed my last check against the Hooper fortune, in order that you may receive your due. To-morrow my check, I fear, would not be honoured. If I have done wrong in withdrawing money to-day for the purpose of paying you for honest labour, I shall certainly never permit it to disturb my conscience. As soon as Rutherford is able to be removed, I shall leave Seawood forever. In conclusion, I may say that all I have left in the world are ten small children. As usual, they turn out to be the poor man's fortune. Mr. Epps, will you be good enough now to distribute the pay envelopes? I shall say good night to all of you, and to you, Mr. Epps, as well. To-morrow at any hour you may select it will give me pleasure to go with you to see the little flat you have described as the most desirable in your list of apartments. I was not aware, Mr. Epps, that you acted as a renting agent in addition to your duties with Bradlee, Sigsbee & Oppenheim."

"Yes, sir," said Mr. Epps. "I find it quite a profitable side issue, Mr. Bingle. Clients of ours are constantly being reduced to the necessity of seeking cheaper—ahem! I shall be pleased to show you the flat at any hour YOU may select."

"Thank you, Epps."

Without going more deeply into details, the foregoing explains the situation. Thomas Singleton Bingle was to be deprived of the Hooper millions. His ten years of possession, years of peace and plenty, had come to an abrupt termination. Poverty, even darker than he had suffered before the windfall, loomed up ahead of him, for in the old days there had been no children to feed and clothe. Added to this was the certainty that a sick wife would take the place of that well, strong and encouraging Mary of the past. Despite the claims and assurances of his lawyers, Mr. Bingle always had felt that this day would come. He had never looked upon himself as the rightful possessor of Joseph Hooper's fortune in its entirety. So, when the time came, he was the least surprised by the shock, and would have been the first to smile had it not been for the dreadful effect the news had upon Mrs. Bingle. His wife collapsed. She sent for her mother and sister and declared openly that from that day forth she would make her home with them. And to add to Mr. Bingle's incalculable distress, Dr. Fiddler very resolutely said that he thought it advisable for her to do precisely what she wanted to do at this time. Later on, no doubt, she would look upon the situation differently, and would return to him sound in body, mind and affection. But for the present—well, said the great Dr. Fiddler, she'd be much happier with her mother and sister, away from Mr. Bingle and the children. He also advised Mr. Bingle in no uncertain terms to get rid of the children as soon as possible without seriously jeopardising their future welfare, "for," said he, "they will never cease to be a barrier between you and your wife, now that the dream is over and you are both awake to the cruel call of reality." The situation became desperate for Mr. Bingle when his wife took her extraordinary stand, and not before. He wilted like a faded flower in the face of this blighting calamity.

On the morning of the sixth of July, a pompous old gentleman rang the front doorbell at Seawood, and inquired for Mr. Bingle. He turned out to be the principal lawyer employed by Joseph Hooper's son and daughters in their fight for the Grimwell millions—a Mr. Hoskins by name. He might have been designated as General Hoskins, as a matter of fact, for he was in actual command of a small army of lawyers, now victorious after a long and bitter warfare.

"I am authorised by my clients, Mr. Bingle," said he, "to extend to you the customary amenities in such cases, wherein a contest ends so disastrously for one party or the other. We are not unmindful of the teachings of 'The Christmas Carol.' Indeed, we have all read it with great interest. Joseph Hooper's recommendations to his children in regard to you—"

"Just a moment, please," interrupted Mr. Bingle. "Say it straight out, Mr. Hoskins. Have they commissioned you to make provision for my future out of the funds they are about to acquire?"

"In a measure, yes," said Mr. Hoskins, prepared to sneer at Mr. Bingle's gleeful acceptance of charity. "Of course, nothing can be done in the matter until the opinion of the Court is—"

"Nothing at all can be done in the matter," said Mr. Bingle acidly. "I shall not accept a penny from them, Mr. Hoskins. They wouldn't accept it from me, and I'm damned if I'll accept it from them. 'The Christmas Carol' hasn't anything to do with the case. All I ask is a little time in which to straighten out the affairs of the estate, and not to be hurried in my actions. I promise you that I shall be as expeditious as possible. In a day or two my counsel and I will be able to get started on the work. It will be quite simple so far as I am concerned. I have only to turn over to you everything in the world except our wearing apparel—not all of that, you may be sure—and my part of the transfer is completed. I had nothing when Joseph Hooper's money came to me, so, you see, it will be quite easy for me to step down and out. I have only to walk out of the house with my wife and children, without a cent in my pockets, and the job is done. Everything else belongs to Geoffrey and his sisters." Mr. Hoskins was disconcerted. He had come prepared to be generous. "My dear sir, the fortunes of war have militated against—"

"Better say the misfortunes of war," interrupted Mr. Bingle, with a twinkle in his eye.

"I wish you wouldn't interrupt me every time I start to speak to you, Mr. Bingle," said the lawyer. "I'm not accustomed to being—"

"I beg your pardon," again interrupted Mr. Bingle, and, because he said it apologetically, Mr. Hoskins was not resentful.

"My clients are disposed to be fair and—I will not say charitable— generous in their hour of triumph. Last evening they met and discussed the problems confronting you, sir. They realise that you devoted a great deal of your time and much of your slender means toward securing the comfort of their lamented father—"

"And burying him," put in Mr. Bingle. "Don't forget that I buried him."

"—and they are prepared to settle a certain amount upon you for life, Mr. Bingle."

"Well, that's nice of them," said Mr. Bingle.

"The amount will be decided upon at some subsequent meeting. In the meantime, you are to accept from them the sum of one thousand dollars for the purpose of providing yourself with—"

"I've just got to interrupt, Mr. Hoskins. I do it for your own sake. You are wasting time and words. I shan't take a penny, as I said before. I will not allow them to settle a certain amount upon me. That's flat, Mr. Hoskins. I know how to be poor a blamed sight better than I know how to be rich. It won't be a new thing to me. I'll get along, so don't you worry. I have kept the books for this estate ever since I came into control of it, just because I like to be busy at something I know how to do without asking the advice of the butler or anybody else. The books and accounts have been kept straight up to this very day. You can put your auditors and expert accountants at work on them to-morrow, if you like, and you'll find that they balance to a cent. So, you see, I've not allowed myself to get rusty with prosperity."

"Most extraordinary," said Mr. Hoskins.

"When the time comes, I shall be able to turn over the estate a good deal better than I found it. It has increased under my management. I could not have begun to spend the income from the investments. Your clients will find themselves in possession of an extra million or two apiece to recompense them for their long wait. I do not expect or solicit thanks for managing the estate while it was under my control. Please tell them so, Mr. Hoskins."

"My clients are not disposed to exact a complete, minute accounting from you, Mr. Bingle," said Mr. Hoskins, somewhat at a loss for means to meet the unexpected. "Naturally we, as their attorneys, are expected to ascertain the condition of the estate, and all that sort of thing. I am quite sure that we will find it—er—in excellent order."

"Before I forget it, perhaps I'd better mention one or two expenditures that I have made in the past twenty-four hours," said Mr. Bingle thoughtfully. "I have taken it upon myself to pay all of my just debts before the order of the Court takes effect. In other words, sir, I have settled in full with my attorneys, my doctors and my servants. They are paid up to the minute, Mr. Hoskins."

The lawyer stared. "Do you mean to say that you have paid out of the estate the fees—undoubtedly exorbitant—of these lawyers for the ten years' fiddling they have been—"

"My doctor's name is Fiddler, sir," interrupted Mr. Bingle, looking so hard into Mr. Hoskins' eyes that once more the interruption passed unresented. "I have paid them all in full, if that's what you are trying to get at."

"Don't you know that such an act is distinctly illegal?" demanded Mr. Hoskins.

"So my lawyers informed me."

"And yet they permitted you to hand over to them large sums of money in the nature of fees without waiting for an order of the Court, knowing full well that an opinion had been handed down? It is incomprehensible!"

"It shouldn't be incomprehensible to you, Judge Hoskins," said Mr. Bingle gently. "You are a lawyer yourself."

"Am I to infer that you—What do you mean, sir?"

"I leave that entirely to you, sir."

Mr. Hoskins coughed, although there was nothing to indicate that it was necessary.

"It is possible, sir, for my clients to bring suit against you for a full accounting of all monies that you have expended or misused in—"

"I wouldn't say that, if I were you, Judge Hoskins."

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Bingle. For all monies that belong or have belonged to the estate of their father. I say it is possible for them to do so—but not likely. You should not forget that this estate virtually has been held in trust by you for all these years, pending the final decision—a point agreed upon by my clients and yourself in the desire to increase the value of—"

"If they feel inclined to bring such a suit, Mr. Hoskins, I shall not combat it," said Mr. Bingle drily. "They may take judgment by default. They are used to waiting by this time, so it won't be anything new for them to wait a million years for what they'd get if they sued me. By carefully hoarding a couple of dollars a year for a million years, I fancy I could in the end be able to take care of the judgment. But it hardly seems worth while, does it? It is barely possible that your clients might die before that time is up, even though I should survive."

"I fear that you do not realise that this is no joking matter, Mr. Bingle," said Mr. Hoskins stiffly. He was not quite so pompous as when he entered the house.

"I fear that you did not realise it either, Mr. Hoskins, when you spoke of suing me."

"Ahem! And now, sir, when may we arrange for a conference over the transfer of all properties now in your hands, or under your control, as coming from the estate of the late Joseph Hooper?"

"You may call up my attorneys by telephone this afternoon, sir, and arrange anything you like. They are still in my employ, according to our agreement of yesterday. I've paid them to see that I have nothing left when they get through with me, so there's nothing to worry about. Confer with them, Mr. Hoskins, and when you are ready I'll come down and do whatever is necessary in the premises. In the meantime, convey my thanks to my cousins and say that when they refused to accept a portion of the estate from me ten years ago they made it impossible for me to accept anything from them now. What they were too proud to accept, I also am too proud to take. Thank you for coming out to see me, Mr. Hoskins. I know you are a very busy man, and I know it must seem like a prodigious waste of time to be interesting yourself in the affairs of a poor bookkeeper without a cent to his name. For that is what I am, Mr. Hoskins: a poor bookkeeper without a cent to his name but still a believer in 'The Christmas Carol.'"

"But that book actually was the cause of your undoing, sir. It—"

"It doesn't matter," said Mr. Bingle wearily. "It is a good book, just the same. If you will excuse me now, I must go to the city. I have an appointment right after luncheon with a man who is going to show me a flat."

Mr. Hoskins surprised himself at this juncture—undeniably surprised himself. "If you are going to the city at once, Mr. Bingle, perhaps you will permit me to take you up in my car."

Mr. Bingle's smile was quizzical. "You HAVE got something out of 'The Christmas Carol' then," he said, and Mr. Hoskins eventually had the grace to redden perceptibly. He was slow in grasping the connection, however.

The impoverished millionaire had a busy afternoon, and some annoying mishaps—if they may be classified as such. In the first place, he went to the bank and delivered his resignation as vice-president and director. He handed it to Mr. Force and at the same moment applied for his old job as bookkeeper. Mr. Force complimented him on his promptness in both emergencies. It appears that the newspapers had printed columns about the Bingle affair. Mr. Force was in possession of all the facts. He had been interviewed by all of the reporters who had failed to see Mr. Bingle and who had to be content with a statement prepared and delivered by Flanders.

"Your resignation comes just in time, Bingle," he said. "We have a meeting of the board to-morrow. And as for the position, I'm happy to say you can have it almost immediately. Ramsey is leaving. I thought of you this morning when my secretary mentioned the fact. And, by the way, I don't mind saying that we hope to have the Hooper heirs continue their holdings in the bank. The account, as you know, is a large one and we don't want to lose it. Besides, Geoffrey Hooper is the sort of a chap who will help the bank tremendously if we put him on the board. He stands very high socially and is hand in glove with the richest people in town. I am to see him at three o'clock. By Jove, it's nearly three. Excuse me, Bingle, if I appear to hurry you off, but—"

"I just wanted to ask how Kathleen is, Mr. Force," said Mr. Bingle, who had not been asked to sit down.

"She's all right," said Mr. Force. "Good-bye, Bingle. Tell Bashford I said you were to have Ramsey's place. And, by the way, if I can ever be of any service to you, Bingle, I wish you'd call on me."

"Thanks. The job will be enough, I hope, Mr. Force."

Force suddenly lowered his eyes. "I'd ask you to come and see Kathleen, Bingle, but—but we're trying to break the child of her homesickness, of her longing to see you. Time, of course, will do it. You will understand, of course, that it is better for her—and for all of us—if she doesn't see you."

Mr. Bingle's face shone. "She—she still loves me, then?" he cried softly.

Force compressed his lips, and then admitted: "Yes, Bingle, old fellow, she DOES love you. And, hang it all, why shouldn't she? I—I want her to love me and not you. I can't look at you without envy in my soul—eating my soul, do you understand?—and I could almost hate you for the start you got of me in those long years with her. Oh, don't laugh at me, Bingle. Don't stand there grinning like a hyena. I suppose it will please you to hear that the poor child cries nearly every night of her life because she—she misses you. I—"

"You can bet it DOES please me," shouted Mr. Bingle.

"Wait, Bingle! Don't go. What am I to do? How am I going to put sunshine back into that little girl's face? Lord, man, I—I can't stand it much longer."

Mr. Bingle pondered. Then he laid his hat upon the table and took a notebook and pencil from his pocket. While he scribbled, Force looked on in perplexity.

"There!" said Mr. Bingle, tearing out the sheet and handing it to the president of the bank. "You may read it, Mr. Force. Give it to her, and see if she doesn't brighten up a bit."

Force read the note. He read it aloud, as if that was the only way to get the full meaning of it.

"'Dear Kathleen: Your old daddy loves you. You must always love him, and you must make your new daddy fetch you to see him some day. Come and see Freddie and all the other kiddies. They will be so delighted to see you, for they all love you. And if your new daddy will fetch you to see your old daddy once in a while, I am sure you will come to love your new daddy as much, if not more than you love your old

"DADDY BINGLE.'"

"Give that to her, Force, and maybe she'll put her arms around your neck and kiss you," said Mr. Bingle, and went swiftly out of the room, leaving Force staring at the bit of paper as if fascinated.

As he hurried from the bank, he met Rouquin, the foreign exchange manager, who evidently had been lying in wait for him.

"How do you do, Rouquin?" said he, stopping to proffer his hand to the Frenchman.

"See here, Mr. Bingle," began Rouquin, in an agitated undertone; "I want a word or two with you about Napoleon. What is to become of that child, now that you are down and out? Will he be sent to some accursed charity home or—"

"Possess your soul in peace, Rouquin," said Mr. Bingle, drawing back to look more intently into the unfriendly eyes of the once amiable Rouquin. "Napoleon shall have the best I can give him, no more. He is as well with me as he could ever have been with his good-for-nothing father, and if I choose to get rid of him later on to the best advantage I won't be doing anything more despicable than his father and mother did before me. Please bear that in mind."

"I shall see to it that he is taken away from you before he is a week older," cried Rouquin angrily. "You cannot expect me to leave that helpless child—"

"What have you got to do with it, Rouquin?" demanded Mr. Bingle sharply.

"I am his mother's friend. I promised her that he should have a fine home. I swore to her that he should never know want or hardship or—"

"There is only one way for you to take Napoleon away from me," said Mr. Bingle, as Rouquin floundered for words to express himself. "And that is to come up like a man and say that you are his father. Whenever you can do that and whenever you can show me that you and his mother are married to each other, I'll give him up to you, but not before, you scum of the earth!"

Rouquin went very red in the face and then very pale, and his thin lips set themselves in a ghastly smile.

"Good day, Rouquin," said Mr. Bingle, and went out of the bank.

Mr. Epps was annoyed because his customer kept him waiting for nearly half-an-hour. He was exceedingly crabbed and disagreeable as they set out to look at the flat which was to be the Bingle home, provided the rent was paid regularly and promptly.



CHAPTER XV

DECEMBER

The proverbial church-mouse was no worse off than Mr. Bingle at the end of the fifth month of his reduction. Indeed, it is more than probable that the church-mouse would be conceded a distinct advantage in many particulars. A very small nest will accommodate a very large family of growing mice; the tighter they are packed in the nest the better off they are in zero weather. Moreover, in a pinch, the parental church-mouse may stave off famine by resorting to a cannibalistic plan of economy, thereby saving its young the trouble of growing up to become proverbial church-mice. It may devour its young when it becomes painfully hungry, and not be held accountable to the law. With commendable frugality, the church-mouse first eats off the tail of its offspring. Then, if luck continues to be bad, the remainder may be despatched with due and honest respect for the laws of nature.

Now, with Mr. Bingle, it was quite out of the question for him to devour even so small a morsel as Napoleon without getting into serious trouble with the law, and it was equally impossible to obtain the same degree of comfort for his young by packing them into a four room flat. And then the church-mouse doesn't have to think about shoes and stockings and mittens and ear-muffs, to say nothing of frocks and knickerbockers. So he who speaks of another as being "as poor as a church-mouse" does a grave injustice to a really prosperous creature, despite the fact that it lives in a church and is employed in the rather dubious occupation of supporting a figure of speech. Look carefully into the present law of economics, if you please, and then grant the church-mouse the benefit of the doubt.

Mr. Bingle's flat could be found by traversing a very mean street in the lower east side not far removed from the Third Avenue Elevated tracks. Discovery required the mounting of four flights of stairs by foot, and two turns to the right in following the course of the narrow, dark hallway which led in a round-about sort of way to a fire escape that invited a quicker and less painful death than destruction by flames in case one had to choose between the two means of perishing.

Four rooms and a kitchen was all that Mr. Bingle's flat amounted to. The four rooms contained beds; in the kitchen there was a collapsible cot. In one of the rooms (ordinarily it would have been the parlour), there was a somewhat futile sheet-iron stove in which soft coal or wood could be used provided the wind was in the right direction. This was, in fact, the parlour. The bed, by day, assumed the dignity of a broad but saggy lounge, exceedingly comfortable if one was careful to sit far enough forward to avoid slipping into its cavernous depths from which there was no escape without assistance. Besides being the parlour, it was also the library, the study-room, the dining-room and reception hall. By night, it was the bed-chamber of Mr. Bingle.

At the beginning of the cold snap that arrived quite early in December, it also became the sleeping place of Rutherford, Rosemary and Harold, the tiniest of the children, who piled in with the uncomplaining occupant and kept him awake three-fourths of the night trying to determine whose legs were uncovered and whose were not. With six exceedingly active little legs wriggling in as many different directions in pitch darkness, it was no easy matter, you may be sure, to decide whether any two belonged to the same individual, and when it came to pass that three of them were exposed at the same time the puzzle was indeed a difficult one.

Napoleon's crib also made its way into the parlour when the cold weather came; and while Napoleon's legs stayed under cover pretty well his voice, like Chanticleer's, arose before the sun. Frederick, Wilberforce and Reginald slept in one room, Marie Louise, Henrietta and Guinevere in another. In pleasant weather, Rosemary joined her sisters, while Harold and Rutherford fell in with the other boys. There never was a time, however, when Mr. Bingle did not have a bed- fellow in the shape of one or the other of the two small boys.

The fourth room was occupied by the maid-of-all-work, and as it was primarily intended to be the servant's bedroom it is not necessary to state that there was space for but one full grown person inside its four walls. The collapsible cot in the kitchen represented the foundation of an emergency guest chamber. Up to the present it had not been called into use, but it was always there in readiness for the expected and unexpected.

It will be observed that no account is taken of Mrs. Bingle. The explanation is quite simple. She went to live with her mother and sister at Peekskill on the advice of Dr. Fiddler almost immediately after the Supreme Court's opinion was handed down. Later on, she came down to the city with her mother, who now received a small but sufficient income through the death and will of a fairly well-to-do bachelor brother. The old lady took a house in the Bronx and once a week Mr. Bingle journeyed northward by subway and surface lines to visit his wife. A smart little doctor from Dr. Fiddler's staff made occasional visits to the Bronx and looked the part of a wiseacre when Mr. Bingle appealed to him for encouragement. He smiled knowingly and refused to commit himself beyond a more or less reassuring squint, a pursing of the lips, and the usual statement that if nothing happened she would be as fit as ever in the course of time.

The cot in the kitchen was for Mr. Bingle in case Mrs. Bingle decided to come back to him in health as well as in person. He consoled himself with the daily hope that she would come dashing in upon him, as well as ever and in perfect sympathy with his decision to protect the helpless children they had gathered about them in their years of affluence.

He had stood out resolutely against all contention that the children should be cast upon the world once more. Harsh words were used at times by interested friends in their efforts to bring him to his senses. They urged him to let them find homes or asylums for the rapacious youngsters; they described them as so many Sindbads; they spoke of them as millstones about the neck of a man who could never get his head above water unless he cut loose from them; they argued long and insistently about his mistaken ideas of justice, responsibility, affection. He came back at them always with the patient declaration that he would stand by the bargain made by himself and his wife so long as God saw fit to give him the strength to earn a living for their charges.

"Why, confound you, Bingle," said Mr. Force to him one day at the bank, "one would think that you still regard yourself as a millionaire, the way you hang onto those kids. Cut them adrift, old fellow. Or if you won't do that, at least let some of us help you in a pecuniary way. Don't be so infernally proud and self-satisfied. It wouldn't be charity. It would be justice. Now, see here, I've argued this thing with you for three months or more and I'm getting tired of your everlasting serenity. I know you are hard put to find enough money to clothe and feed these kids, besides buying what your wife may need. You are beginning to look shabby and you certainly are thinner and greyer. What you ought to do, Bingle, is to turn those kids over to a Home of some sort and settle down to a normal way of living. Winter is coming on. You will have a devil of a time providing for ten small children and a sick wife on the salary you are getting here. Now, for heaven's sake, old fellow, take my advice. Get rid of 'em. You owe it to your wife, Bingle. She ought—"

"I owe it to my wife to take care of them alone, now that she is unable to do her part," said Mr. Bingle simply. "We took them as partners, so to speak. She is unable to manage her share of the liability. Well, I'll do her part for her, Mr. Force, so long as I'm able. The time may come when I shall have to appeal for help, or give up the struggle altogether, but it isn't here yet. I can manage for a while, thank you. Besides," and his face brightened, "we may have a very mild winter, and the new tariff is just as likely as not to reduce the cost of living, no matter what you croakers say to the contrary. I've talked it over with Mrs. Bingle. She says she can't come home until she is very much better, and I'll admit that the children would be a dreadful strain upon her nerves at present. But she says I'm to do just as I think best in regard to them. She thinks I'm foolish—in fact, she says so—but I think I understand her better than any one else. Down in her heart she knows I'm doing the right thing. We'll wait, like old Micawber, for something to turn up. If it doesn't turn up in a reasonable length of time, then I'll consider what is best to do with the children."

"Are you considering your own health, Bingle?" demanded Force bluntly.

"No," said Mr. Bingle simply. "I've lived a decent, sensible life, so what's the use worrying over something that can't be helped?" His smile was cheerful, the twinkle in his eyes was as bright as though it had never known a dim moment.

"You should accept the standing offer of the Hooper heirs," said Force. "They are disposed to be fair and square, Bingle. Three thousand a year isn't to be sneezed at."

"The Hooper heirs are sneezing at it, so why shouldn't I?" said Mr. Bingle cheerily.

"I suppose you'll read that ridiculous Christmas Carol on Christmas Eve," said Force sarcastically.

"Certainly," said Mr. Bingle. "That reminds me; I wish you'd let Kathleen come down to see us on Christmas Eve. I think she'd enjoy the reading."

"I'll do it, Bingle," said Force after a moment. "Since she has been allowed to go down to see you and those kids of yours, her whole view of life has changed. You were right, old fellow. I believe she likes me better as time goes on. At any rate, she is quite gay and happy, and she doesn't look at me with scared eyes any longer. She kissed me as if she really meant it the other day when I told her she could have Freddy up to tea. I'd like to suggest, however, that you see to it that the flat is thoroughly aired and all the germs blown out before she comes down again to—"

"You needn't worry, Mr. Force," said Bingle without a sign of resentment in his manner. "We can't help airing the flat. Our greatest problem is to keep from airing it. There isn't a minute of the day that it isn't being aired."

Besides Mr. Force, who was a friend by circumstance and not from choice, Bingle possessed two loyal and devoted friends in Diggs and Watson, proprietors of the Covent Garden Consolidated Fruit Company of Columbus Avenue, Manhattan. They would have supplied him with vegetables and cured meats without charge if the thing could have been accomplished without his knowledge. They came often to see him, Watson bringing his wife, the former Miss Stokes, and many a night was made cheerful for the little man by these good sprites from another world.

Mr. Diggs resignedly awaited the day when Mr. Bingle's maid-of-all- work could see her way clear to become Mrs. Diggs, and the equal of Mrs. Watson, if not her superior by virtue of the position of her husband's name on the firm's business cards. But if Diggs was devotedly loyal to Melissa, Melissa was equally loyal to Mr. Bingle. Fifteen years of kindness had not been wasted on this extraordinary servant. She was as true as she was unique in this age of abominations.

The older children went to a public school not far away, and Melissa looked after the young ones through the long, slow days, relieved only from her self-imposed duties when Mr. Bingle came home from the bank. Neither Melissa nor Mr. Bingle had had a full day off in all these months, and neither complained. When Sunday came, he always urged her to spend it with friends, leaving him to attend to the midday meal and dinner, but she firmly, even arrogantly, refused to permit any one to meddle with her kitchen. She forced him to go to the Bronx every Sunday afternoon, whether he would or no, and demanded a staggering decrease in wages.

"Why, Mr. Bingle," she said, "you can't expect me to work for the same pay I was getting out at Seawood. Don't be silly, sir; wasn't I getting more out there than the butler got? And didn't I save nearly every cent of it for eight years and more? I was getting twenty-five dollars a week out there, wasn't I? And Mr. Diggs was getting only a hundred dollars a month, wasn't he? Well, how much could you afford to pay a butler now if you had one, sir? Two dollars a week at the outside, find himself. Well, I still feel I'm worth more to you than any butler you could get, so I'll have to insist on three dollars a week when convenient. I put away about eight thousand dollars while I was working for you at Seawood. It's in the savings banks now, every nickel of it, drawing three and a half and four per cent., or about twenty-five dollars a month, sir. Twelve and twenty-five makes thirty- seven a month, don't it? That's more than most girls are getting, and it's certainly more than any of 'em is worth, judging from what I've seen. So if you'll just consider that I'm getting thirty-seven a month out of you, Mr. Bingle, we won't argue any longer."

"But, my dear Melissa, we must consider poor Diggs. It isn't fair to keep him waiting. I fear I shall have to discharge you. It seems to be the only way to make you and Diggs happy. I shall discharge you without a recommendation, too. We can't have Diggs dying of old age while we are discussing what is to become of him. It is your duty to marry Diggs at once. You must remember that I do not want you in my employ. You must not forget that I told you so six months ago and that I even tried to lock you out. Now, you certainly do not care to work for a man who despises you, who doesn't want you around, who is doing his level best to get rid of you, who—"

"Oh, shucks, Mr. Bingle!" cried Melissa, with her comely grin. "Sit down and have your breakfast now. Don't worry about Mr. Diggs. He is having the time of his life courting me. At least, he acts as if he is. It won't hurt him to be engaged for a couple of years."

"But see how happy Watson is."

"I see all right," she said shrewdly; "and it won't hurt Mr. Diggs to see how happy he is, either."

"You are the most selfish girl I've ever known, Melissa," said he quaintly. "You won't let anybody else have a thing to say about it, will you?"

"No, sir," said Melissa. "I'm a perfect brute."

Mr. Epps was a regular visitor. He came once a month and never later than the first. The rent was twenty-two dollars a month. Mr. Epps was always expecting that it wouldn't be paid. He never failed to make a point of telling Mr. Bingle that he was what you might call a soft- hearted lummix and for that reason it always went hard with him to evict a tenant for not paying his rent on the minute. He talked a great deal about the people he had chucked out into the street and how unhappy the life of a renting agent could be at times. Once he gave Mr. Bingle a cigar.

"Sure I'm not robbing you?" said Mr. Bingle.

"No," said Mr. Epps. "I don't smoke."

There was one Broadway theatre in which it was impossible to obtain seats unless they were applied for weeks in advance. The leading lady in the company playing there was not so important a personage that she could deny herself the pleasant sensation of being a real woman, and the author of the play was not so high and mighty that one had to use a ten-foot pole in touching him.

Mr. and Mrs. Richard Sheridan Flanders paid frequent visits to the home of Mr. Bingle. The beautiful and popular Miss Colgate, the sensation of the early season and a certain candidate for stellar honours, never came to see the young Bingles without betraying a spirit of generosity which sometimes caused Mr. Bingle to sit up half the night treating stomach-aches of all ages and degrees. She brought candy and cakes and fruit for the children, and flowers for Mr. Bingle. She would have come laden with more substantial and less pernicious presents but for the gentle objections of her old friend and benefactor. In the face of his kindly protests, she abandoned certain well-meant, even cherished ideas, and was often sore at heart.

Dick Flanders had found a producer after all. His hopes, considerably dashed by the Supreme Court of the United States of America, were at a low ebb when a practically unknown manager from the Far West concluded that there was more to his play than the wise men of the East were able to discern at a glance. With more sense than intelligence, the Westerner leaped into the heart of New York with a new play by a new author and scored a success from the opening night. Amy Colgate, an unknown actress, became famous in a night, so to speak. After the holidays, there would be a company playing the piece in Chicago, and another doing the "big stands" throughout the length and breadth of the land. So much for Mr. Flanders' play and Miss Amy Colgate.

Mr. Bingle never ceased congratulating himself and his two successful friends on the fact that he had not invested a cent of the Hooper fortune in the production. For, said he, if he had put a penny into it, the Hooper heirs would now be dividing the profits with Flanders.

"Luck was with us for once, Dick," he was prone to repeat. "A week later and we would have been desperately involved. I would have put up the initial ten thousand dollars for the production and you would have been saddled with Geoffrey and his sisters, perhaps for life—and I can't imagine anything more unnecessary than that. Yes, sir, the smash came just in the nick o' time. What at first appeared to you to be a calamity turned out to be a God-send, my boy. The Supreme Court behaved handsomely by you."

This always brought out a vigorous protest from Mr. and Mrs. Flanders. They stoutly maintained that Mr. Bingle was an original partner in the enterprise, and, when it came right down to tacks, had put quite as much capital into the business as either of them. They contended that he should have a share in the royalties, if not in the profits.

"As a matter of fact, Mr. Bingle, you made so many valuable suggestions in respect to the play—dialogues, construction and so forth—that you really ought to take some of the consequences," said Flanders. "It isn't fair to put all the blame upon me. For instance, who was responsible for cutting out that scene in the second act?"

"Mrs. Bingle," said the other promptly. "She thought it was too suggestive."

"Well, it certainly was you, sir, who advised me to make more of the scene between Deborah and the old gentleman in the last act. As you know, it is now the great scene in the play. You will not pretend to deny—"

"Advice is one thing, Dick, and following it is quite another. No, you can't make me believe that I did anything toward writing that play. A man who didn't know the difference between a cue line and a back drop can't very well be indicted for complicity. To tell you the truth, Mrs. Flanders, I don't know to this day what those initials, 'L. U. E.' stand for, and a lot of other initials as well. Pride kept me from inquiring. I didn't want to expose my ignorance about a thing that you and Dick talked about so glibly. What does 'L. U. E.' mean?"

"'Left Upper Entrance,' Mr. Bingle," said she with a laugh.

"Well, I'm glad the mystery is revealed at last. I've laid awake nights trying to conjure up words to fit those letters. 'R. U. E.' means 'right,' I suppose. Dear me, how simple it seems, after all."

"Now, see here, Mr. Bingle," Flanders would say, "you went into partnership with me last winter, that's the long and short of it. It wasn't your fault that you couldn't put up the money according to our agreement, but I want to say to you that if it hadn't been for your encouragement and advice I never would have finished the play and I certainly could not have scraped up the courage to get married when I did. Amy and I have always looked upon you as a partner in our success. Now, I'll tell you precisely what we've decided upon as a fair division of the royalties that I am receiving. You are to take the author's royalty from the number three company—the one that is to play the 'road' for this season and next. It is to be a three cornered arrangement. Amy helped to develop the play, so she is to have the royalty from the Chicago company, while I shall receive all that comes out of the New York run. This arrangement will hold good for two seasons. After that, we'll make a new arrangement, taking in the stock rights, moving pictures and—"

But Mr. Bingle would listen to no more. Always when Flanders got just so far in his well-meant, earnest propositions, the object of his concern would stop him in such a gentle, dignified manner that the young playwright would flush with the consciousness that he had given offence to an honest soul.

Mr. Bingle defeated every enterprise on the part of his few friends that had the appearance of charity. He accepted their good intentions, he delighted in their thoughtfulness and esteem, but he never permitted them to go beyond a certain well-defined line. The argument that he had been generous, even philanthropic, in his days of prosperity was invariably met by the quaint contention that while the Good Book teaches charity, the dictionary makes a point of defining it, and "you can't spell charity, my friend, with the letters that are allotted to generosity. So don't quote the Bible to me."

He put a stop to the cunning schemes of Diggs and Watson, who, with Melissa's connivance, began a regular and systematic attempt to smuggle bacon, eggs, butter and potatoes into the kitchen. This project of theirs at first comprehended vegetables of every description and fruits as well, but the sagacious house-maid vetoed anything so wholesale as all that. She agreed that the accidental delivery of a side of bacon, or a mistake in the counting of a dozen eggs, or the overweighing and undercharging of a pound of butter, or the perfectly natural error of sending a peck and a half of potatoes when only a peck was ordered, might escape the keen observation of Mr. Bingle, but that anything more noticeable would cause the good gentleman to take his trade elsewhere. As she said to the distressed Diggs one evening, after carefully observing that the kitchen door was closed: "When I order a half ton of coal from you for the parlour stove, there's no sense in you weighing it out by ounces. Guess at it, and then after you've guessed as near right as you know how, double the amount. Mr. Bingle isn't going to weigh the coal, you know. And when it comes to rice and hominy and cooking apples and all such things, just let your imagination do the measuring. If a pound of coffee happens to look like a pound and a half to you, don't forget the extra cups you used to have every afternoon at Seawood. And if I should happen to send for the cheapest tea you've got in stock, don't overlook the fact that there is an expensive kind. Once in a while you might make ME a present of a couple of dozen oranges, some bananas and nuts, and you might sometimes ask Mr. Bingle to sample a new brand of smoking tobacco you're thinking of carrying."

"But we sha'n't carry tobaccos," said Mr. Diggs, who aside from being a good soul was also British.

"All the more reason why you should be THINKING of carrying 'em, isn't it, you stupid?"

Mr. Bingle saw the opening performance of the Flanders play and went behind the scenes afterward. He did this, he explained, so that he could describe his sensations to Mrs. Bingle. He was introduced to all of the players and they were so uniformly polite that he fell into a fine fury the next morning on reading the newspaper review in which they were described as "unintentionally adequate."

He knew as well as every one else that it would be impossible for him to keep the children on the salary he was receiving at the bank. He knew that the day was not far off when he would have to give them up. His fellow bookkeepers harangued him from morning till night. They made themselves obnoxious with their everlasting talk about being unable to support families one-fourth the size of his; and one or two slyly inquired whether he hadn't "salted away" a part of the Hooper money for a perpetual spell of rainy weather. In justice to the children themselves it would be necessary for him, before long, to set about finding suitable, respectable homes for them. It was this unhappy sense of realisation that put the new furrows in his brow and took the colour out of his cheek, the lustre from his eyes.

One day he was approached by Rouquin, volatile and cheery as in the days of old. The sprightly Frenchman was beaming with friendliness and good spirits. He conveyed a startling bit of personal news to Mr. Bingle without the slighest trace of shame or embarrassment.

"Well, Mr. Bingle, I have married her," he said shrugging his shoulders in a manner that might have signified either extreme satisfaction with himself or lamentation over the inevitable. "The day before yesterday. I am now a proud and happy father, old friend."

"Father?" murmured Mr. Bingle, bewildered. "You—mean bridegroom, Rouquin."

"So I do," cried Rouquin amiably. "But you forget Napoleon—little Napoleon," he went on gaily.

"You have married Napoleon's mother?"

"Le diable! But who else, M'sieur? The charming, adorable Mademoiselle Vallemont. Ah, my good friend, I am so happy. I am—"

"Vallemont? But Madame Rousseau—you seem to forget that she is the mother of Napoleon. You—"

"Nevertheless," said Rouquin, with a gay sweep of his hand before laying it tenderly upon his heart, "I have married the mother of Napoleon. Alas, my good friend, Madame Rousseau is no more. She died when she was but one day old. And her excellent husband, the splendid Jean, he also is a thing of the past. Now there is no one left but Madame Rouquin and me and that adorable Napoleon. Vive l'Emperor! Come, M'sieur, congratulate me. See! This cablegram provides Napoleon with a father. But for what this little bit of paper says, the poor enfant might have gone fatherless to his grave. See! It says here that my wife has died. Read for yourself, M'sieur. It is in French, but what matter? I shall translate. 'Raoul Rouquin: Blanche died to-day. Good luck.' See, it is signed 'Pierre.' Pierre he is my brother. He lives in Paris. Ah, so long have I waited! You may never know my despair—never, M'sieur. But my wife she has died, so all is well. The day before yesterday I was married. I take—"

"For heaven's sake, Rouquin," gasped Mr. Bingle; "not so fast! I don't know what you are talking about."

"Ah, it is so simple," sighed Rouquin, looking upon Mr. Bingle with pity in his eyes. "Can you not see? So long as my wife was alive I could not be married. Is that not plain to you? Then she dies. Quick! Instantly I am married. Voila! It is so simple."

Mr. Bingle comprehended at last. "I see. You have had a wife in Paris all these years, eh?"

"Mon Dieu! Yes, all these years," groaned Rouquin, rolling his eyes. "See! See what my brother Pierre says: 'Blanche died to-day. Good luck.' Good luck! Mon Dieu, M'sieur, is it possible that you do not know what 'good luck' means?"

"And you have married Madame Rous—or whatever her name is?"

"So quick as that!" cried Rouquin, snapping his fingers. "And now, M'sieur, when may I come to take little Napoleon home to his mother?"

Thus it came about that Napoleon was the first to go. Amid great pomp and ceremony, he departed from the home of the many Bingles on a bright, clear day in December, shortly after banking hours, attended by his own mother and father.



CHAPTER XVI

ANOTHER CHRISTMAS EVE

Christmas was drawing near. The Bingle children, accustomed to manifold and expensive presents, were in a state of doubt and hope combined. The older ones realised that while Santa would not pass them by without a sign, there was every reason to believe that he would not deliver the things for which they slyly petitioned, the things they most desired. They had been brought up to receive all that they expected and the prospect ahead for them was not reassuring from the viewpoint their intelligence forced them to take. There were secret lamentations and not a few surly discussions in the absence of Mr. Bingle.

Melissa took the older boys to task for some of the things they said about their foster father. Frederick was the chief offender. He knew that Mr. Bingle's pocket-book was the real Santa Claus, and he wanted a pair of skates and a hockey outfit. Something told him that he would be compelled to accept in lieu of these necessities a silly overcoat or a pair of shoes from the cheap department store up the street. He was too young and no doubt too selfish to admit that he was by way of outgrowing his clothes at least once if not twice a year, or that there is such a spectre as wear and tear. He became sullen, irritable and not infrequently rude to Mr. Bingle. Once when Melissa sharply rebuked him for his ingratitude, he came back at her with an argument that baffled her for the time being: he could not see why Mr. Bingle had been so good to Kathleen. Why had she been given a rich, happy home while he and all of the others were brought to a place like this? Melissa, finding no immediate response to this, boxed his ears.

The younger members of the brood were not involved in this graceless agitation. The complaints stopped with Guinivere. Harold, Rosemary and Rutherford were too young to realise the state of destitution into which the family had fallen. They were quite happy, contented and, so far, unaware of the gravity of a situation which was more or less apparent to their elders. Frederick, Marie Louise and Wilberforce formed the higher group of malcontents, and their mutterings reached the acute ears of a second and less formidable group composed of Reginald, Henrietta and Guinivere. The influence of the three older children, envied and imitated by the next three in order of age, was responsible for the inclusion of this second group in the general tendency toward unruliness and resentfulness.

Mr. Bingle sensed this unhappy condition of affairs. His soul was sorely tried. Was he doing the right thing by these children? He was doing his best, but was his best all that they were entitled to under the circumstances? Was he depriving them of a bigger chance in life? He had taken them out of the byways, but was he leading them to the highways? The whining, peevish submission on the part of the larger boys and girls; the unmistakable interrogation that always lurked in their eyes; the frequent outbursts of temper; the quarrels that came up every day among them—all of these went to prove they were sliding back into the byways. There was no gainsaying that, he would say to himself. Insolence, insubordination grew apace. Once Frederick, in the heat of passion over a well-deserved rebuke, called him a "damned old fool."

Moreover, was he doing right by Mrs. Bingle? Was it possible that she might never come back to him who loved her more than he could have loved even a child of his own? Would he be the one to blame?

And so it came about that he finally consented to listen to the suggestions of the cold and unemotional Mrs. Force.

The wife of the president of the bank was the sort of person who gets into the newspapers by all the hooks and crooks known to her sex. To begin with, she made charity a business. As Chairman of two or three organizations declaring for the betterment of society, high and low, she was quoted on nearly every question that came up for discussion in the public prints. She recognised the advantage in her day of being an anti-suffragist. She saw the value of associating herself with the movement to create and maintain a bureau for the distribution of high class literature among low class readers, and she belonged to a society which elevated the stage by giving Sunday night dress rehearsals for the benefit of destitute millionaires. She had a conspicuous box at the Opera, and encouraged the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals by appearing at the Horse Show in Madison Garden without spurs.

But it was as President of the Society for the Restoration of King Manuel to the throne of Portugal that she arose above the ordinary multitude of publicity seekers. This was a movement so unique and so suggestive of pomp that many of the prominent show-girls tried to promote themselves into royal notice by joining the society. They were almost unanimously in favour of the Restoration. Mrs. Force was constantly being interviewed about the hopes and designs of King Manuel, and she was always quoted as saying that the "time is not yet ripe for the unfolding of our plans or I would be only too happy to tell you everything—and I may be able to give you something of interest next week if you will call me up."

Soon after the Bingle disaster, she allied herself with a Society for the Relief of Incompetent Parents, and later on took up the cause of Children's Rights and Wrongs. Quite palpably it was Mr. Bingle's dilemma that inspired her to interest herself in these hitherto neglected enterprises. She began her duties as a member and supporter of the causes by at once declaring war upon poor Mr. Bingle. She put him into a state of siege before he even suspected that hostilities had begun, and then constituted herself Red Cross nurse, sanitary expert, peace intermediary, and everything else that she could think of at the time.

Operations began in November. She had Mr. Bingle brought into her husband's private office at the bank, and there she explained the motives and objects of the Society and talked unrestrainedly of the rights of little children, calmly assuming that the astonished bookkeeper had no rights of his own and therefore was not entitled to a word in the shape of interruption.

"Purely as a matter of humanity, Mr. Bingle, it is necessary for the Society to take these children away from you. We are taking children away from their natural parents every day and finding suitable homes for them, so it isn't reasonable for you to stand in our way, realising, as you must, that you are not the father of a single one of those poor innocents, all of whom are morally if not legally the property of this or kindred societies. We do not recognise the rights of a parent, so why should we consider those of one who attempts, through a mistaken idea of benevolence, to direct the future, the destiny of—ah—the destiny of—But surely you know what I mean, Mr. Bingle. Now, I am not questioning the sincerity of your motives. I am heartily in accord with the original inspiration which led you to take these poor waifs into your home. But, don't you see, the idea works both ways. Charity begins at home, to be sure, but I submit that it all depends upon the character of the home. I do not call a four room flat a home. It may be all right for charity to begin there, in a small way, but it shouldn't drive out common sense, Mr. Bingle. The Society will take these children off of your hands. It will provide for them in every way. Come, now, give me a complete list of the little ones and—"

"I'll—I'll think it over, Mrs. Force," said Mr. Bingle desolately. "I can't be expected to see it from your point of view right at the start, you know. Let me go on for a year or two longer and then—"

"No," said she firmly, fixing him with a relentless eye. "We would regret exceedingly to be forced to call upon the authorities in the case, Mr. Bingle. Of course, you are aware that we can invoke the aid—"

"Oh, goodness no!" cried Mr. Bingle piteously. "You wouldn't think of taking them from me in that way, would you, Mrs. Force?"

"For your sake and for theirs it may be necessary," said she, and then wearying of her philanthropic labours, abruptly dismissed him with a curt: "And now, good day, Mr. Bingle."

Agents from the Society began to visit the little flat; others made a practice of seeing that the older children went to school every day, and, if they were absent, to pester Mr. Bingle with inquiries. Once when Wilberforce had a sore throat, a strange and extremely business- like doctor called and took a culture, at the same time making a note of the congested condition of the sleeping quarters.

Then Mrs. Force took to bringing fashionably dressed ladies to the flat so that they might see for themselves; and docile looking gentlemen in dark clothes and galoshes came to mutter over the extraordinary impropriety of allowing boys and girls to live in the same home together.

Soon after Napoleon was taken away by the bride and bridegroom, Mrs. Force came with her secretary and interviewed the children. The secretary took down notes while Mrs. Force put the questions to the older boys and girls. Mr. Bingle had been virtually ordered out of the room. Afterwards he was called in to hear the report which showed that Frederick, Marie Louise, Wilberforce and Reginald seldom had enough to eat, were always cold and unhappy, and were really quite eager to go into other homes, if it would help "poor daddy." The smaller children whimpered, but it was because they were overawed and frightened by Mrs. Force, who in the Seawood days had always been looked upon by them as the "bad fairy." Melissa, good soul, openly professed that she and Mr. Bingle could manage to take care of the "kids" all right, but in secret she prayed that the Society would take away a half a dozen or so of the little ingrates.

At last Mr. Bingle agreed to let the children go, but stipulated that they should be sent direct to private homes, and not go, like a flock of sheep, into an asylum or Orphans' Home from which they might be parcelled out singly to any Tom, Dick or Harry who came to look them over. He also insisted on having the prospective "bidders" apply to him in person. He would be the judge. He would look them over, and if they suited him, all well and good; if not, he would keep the children until the right and proper persons came along.

His stand was a firm one. He refused to recede an inch from this final position. In vain they argued that it would be the part of wisdom, in fact that it would be absolutely imperative to take them to a comfortable, commodious dormitory where the business end of such undertakings was attended to in routine order and not in the helter- skelter fashion that he advocated.

"I have just begun to realise," he said, "what it is to try to bring other people's children up for them, so, if you please, I submit that I know more about the business than this society knows or ever can hope to know. I have given them everything. I have loved them and they have loved me. In adversity I still love them, but I fear that I cannot say as much for them. They are not my flesh and blood. They know it, my friends—they've never been led to believe that anything else is the case. Now, I am ready and willing to carry out my obligations to them. I am prepared to do all that is in my power to bring them up in the right way, to make good men and women of them. I am not willing, however, to palm them off on other people without first telling those people what they are to expect. I do not blame these boys and girls for resenting what fate has brought them to. It is quite natural that they should feel as they do. I do not call it ingratitude. It is human nature. Even a small boy may reveal symptoms of human nature, Mrs. Force, if you get him into a corner. Now, I want to say to you and your friends here that I will let them go on one condition, and that is that each goes into a home that I personally approve of and only after I have told the head of that home all that I know about the child he seeks to adopt. I appreciate your interest in my behalf and I thank you for your untiring efforts. I believe that you are sincerely in earnest. But I ask you to do me the honour of permitting me to get out of my bad bargain in my own way and in my own time. There is no especial need of haste."

It was pointed out to him that many of those desiring to adopt children lived in distant states and cities, principally in small towns or upon farms. It might be impossible for them to come to New York to see him or the children. He still refused to give an inch.

And so the Society, satisfied that it had achieved a victory, set about to find fathers and mothers for the nine Bingles, and Mr. Bingle sat down to wait for the final struggle that was to come, or, more properly speaking, for the nine separate struggles that lay ahead of him. The children were told what they might expect in the near future, and Mr. Bingle's heart was sorely hurt by the very evident enthusiasm with which they received the news. The younger ones, swept along by the current, and less subtle than their elders, plied Mr. Bingle with a hundred eager, innocent questions, and every one of them seemed to look upon the coming separation as a lark! It was not unusual to catch two or three of the older ones slyly, but excitedly discussing the prospective change, and always they averted their eyes and dropped their voices when Mr. Bingle drew near. Once he heard Marie Louise say in anger to Wilberforce that she'd bet daddy would keep her to the last because she was getting big enough to wash dishes and make beds!

The poor man was beginning to lose faith, not in human nature alone, but in himself. He grimly remarked to Melissa one day that "it isn't safe to count chickens even after they are hatched, especially when your eyes are smarting. I thought I knew more than God, Melissa, and if there was a bramble bush handy I'd jump into it in the hope that I might scratch my eyes back in again, as the saying goes."

"Well, anyhow, Mr. Bingle," Melissa replied, impressed by this confession of failure, "as soon as the kids have left we'll have Mrs. Bingle back again, and that's something to look forward to, sir. We'll go back to the old way of living, which was the best, after all, wasn't it? Just you and me and Mrs. Bingle."

Mr. Bingle hesitated for a moment. "When you and Diggs are married, Melissa, don't make the mistake of adopting a child."

"We won't, sir," said Melissa confidently. She twisted the corner of her apron for a few seconds and then ventured hardily: "Miss Stokes is expecting a baby, sir."

"You mean Mrs. Watson, Melissa. Dear me, that is good news. A boy or a girl? God bless my soul, what a silly question! You see, I'm so in the habit of choosing the gender in advance that I quite forgot myself. I meant to inquire WHEN."

"They've been married five months, sir," said Melissa.

Two weeks before Christmas, Mrs. Force came to the bank to report to Mr. Bingle that homes were in view for six of the children, in fact for all except Frederick, Marie Louise and Wilberforce. It appears that people hesitate about taking youngsters as old as these three, and as steeped in vice and ignorance as naturally might be expected in boys and girls of that age. She said, however, that the Society was making a point of telling people how nicely and how advantageously all of the children had been reared by the late Mr. Bingle. She smiled when she said the "late Mr. Bingle," for it was a capital joke and she had every intention of making the most of it.

It was proposed that the applicants should meet Mr. Bingle and the children at the offices of the Society on the Saturday before Christmas, which fell on a Thursday.

Mr. Bingle objected. He said he couldn't think of letting them go before Christmas. These people would have to wait until after Christmas Eve, and that was final. President Force, coming to his wife's rescue, ironically suggested to the little bookkeeper that it was barely possible that other people were in the habit of inflicting children with "The Christmas Carol." He flushed, however, under the mild stare with which Mr. Bingle favoured him, and proceeded to change his tune with considerable alacrity. A happy thought seemed to have struck him with some suddenness.

"By Jove, Bingle, I have a splendid scheme. What could be more fitting than that these child-seekers should receive just what they want on Christmas morning? That's the ticket, my dear," he said, turning to his wife. "Fix it so that a child is delivered bright and early on Christmas morning—in its own stockings, of course—and there you are! A Merry Christmas for everybody, and perhaps a Happy New Year. What do you think of it, Bingle?"

"Splendid!" said Mr. Bingle. "I wish I could have thought of that when I was in the business myself. It would have been great to have a new baby every Christmas morning. I will agree to that, Mrs. Force, provided I approve of the people I'm supposed to be Santa Claus for."

On the Saturday before Christmas he went to the offices of the Society with ALL of the children, for the industrious Mrs. Force had produced claimants for the three older ones, and when he took the brood home to supper long after seven o'clock that evening, homes and fresh parents were assured for all of them. To be sure, Frederick and Marie Louise objected to living on upstate farms, and Reginald howled bitterly over being promised to a Jewish family in West End Avenue. He had set his heart on being brought up as an Irishman. Some of them were to remain in New York City, one was to go to Philadelphia and another to Bridgeport. Harold, Rosemary and Rutherford were to undergo a complete change of name. They were going into families where for sentimental reasons, a John, a Betty and a Jeremiah were wanted. Guinivere stood in grave danger of being called Prue, after somebody's grandmother, and Henrietta was to be shortened to Etta.

It was understood that the agents from the Society were to call for the youngsters on Christmas Eve, so that they might be ready for delivery the first thing in the morning. The Society was prepared to attend to all of the legal requirements incident to the transfer. Mr. Bingle was to sign what he quaintly called a "blanket affidavit," covering the entire collection, and that was to be the end of the Bingle regime.

Christmas Eve came at last. The day had been bitterly cold, and Mr. Bingle coming in from his final walk with the four small children, who had been taken out to see the lighted shop windows before the last supper they were to have together, was blue in the face and shivering as with a chill. Melissa caught him in the act of removing his muffler from Rosemary's neck. He had already taken his thin overcoat from Harold's shoulders, so she missed that part of his personal sacrifice. She asked with considerable asperity if he was trying to get pneumonia.

"No," said Mr. Bingle, struggling to keep his teeth from chattering; "I'm not, Melissa. I'm trying to head off the croup."

"You'll probably have it yourself to-night."

"I think that would be rather jolly," he said. "I haven't had it since I was the size of Rosemary."

She thought he was losing his mind, and told Diggs so when he came in at six o'clock to help her with the feast they were to have.

"Get away from that stove, Freddy, and you too, Marie Louise," she commanded. "Can't you see your daddy is shivering? Hustle now! Don't soak up all the heat in the room. Let him stand in front of the fire, you little—"

"Now, now, Melissa," said Mr. Bingle, reproachfully; "don't blame the kiddies. They're cold and—by the way, is there no steam in the radiator?"

"I shut off the measly thing awhile ago," she said. "There was too much cold air coming up through the pipes. Honestly, Mr. Bingle, if you happened to stand near that there radiator you'd feel a draft."

The children were dressed in their Sunday best, prepared for the coming exodus. They were neat and clean, and although six months had lengthened their bodies and shortened their garments, their patches and shreds were not so vindictive that they slapped Mr. Bingle's pride in face, if the metaphor is permissible.

"I hope," said he, with his thin shoulders close to the fire, "that we will have time for 'The Christmas Carol' before they—the—" his voice shook a little—"before the gentlemen come for you, kidlets. Perhaps if we were to hurry supper along a little bit, Melissa, we could manage it."

"I don't want to hear that thing again," said Frederick boldly. He appeared to be the leader of a movement to squash "The Christmas Carol."

"Neither do I," said Marie Louise and Wilberforce.

"I want to hear about Tiny Tim," piped up Rosemary, almost in tears.

"Well, you haven't heard it all your life like we have," said Frederick, scowling at the little one. "You've only heard it twice."

"Dear me," sighed Mr. Bingle, in evident distress. "Don't you want to hear 'The Carol' before you say good-bye to daddy—forever?"

"No," said Frederick; "and I'll bet they don't read it where we're going, either."

"Perhaps not, Frederick," said he slowly, turning a rather wistful face toward Melissa, who had come in with a pan full of coals. "There is one thing I quite forgot, Melissa."

"What's that, sir?"

"I forgot to stipulate that the 'Carol' HAD to be read on Christmas Eve in every one of these homes. Dear me, how could I have been so thoughtless."

"I wouldn't worry about that, sir. You're giving these people enough trouble without doing that to them. And as for you, Master Frederick, you'll probably find that instead of reading the 'Carol' to you they'll take you out in the woodshed and give you a touch of Dante's Infernal every once in awhile."

"I'll—I'll kill 'em if they do," cried Frederick loudly.

"Frederick the Great!" exclaimed Melissa with vast scorn. "Here now, you there, get to work and fetch the chairs and stools in from the bedrooms and put 'em up to the table. There's a couple in the kitchen, Wilber. Hustle out and—"

"Don't call me Wilber," snapped Wilberforce. "Haven't I always told you I hate it? Remember you're only a servant. Don't you go—"

"Tut, tut!" exclaimed Mr. Bingle, moving over so that Melissa could drop the coals into the stove. "Remember you are only a gentleman, Wilberforce."

"I'd like to know how I can remember it in a place like this," pouted the boy.

"It's all right, Mr. Bingle," said Melissa cheerily, "I don't mind being called a servant. It's better than 'hired girl.'"

There was a pathetic attempt at seasonable illumination and decoration in the crowded living-room, sprigs of holly, some tapers and tinsel, cotton snowballs and popcorn strands being in the least congested corners, and the table had ten candles standing in two sedate rows. These were not to be lighted until just before soup was served, and each participant at the board was to light his or her candle from the taper supplied by Melissa.

Over in one corner of the room reposed a small pile of packages, each neatly tied up with red ribbon. These represented the gifts of Mr. Bingle and Melissa to the palpably indifferent youngsters. Two bottles of milk stood on the radiator, which, according to Melissa, was infinitely colder than the ice box in the pantry. Incidentally, it is worth while to mention that in one of the bedrooms there were nine compactly wrapped bundles, each marked by a name, but not tied up in red ribbon. They contained the few belongings of the nine children, and they were all ready for the coming of the Society's agents. During the day Mrs. Force had sent her automobile and a footman to remove the toys and treasures left over from the reign of plenty, taking them to headquarters for future distribution among their owners. This was done while Mr. Bingle was at the bank. He could not have endured this part of the business.

The Christmas Carol lay on the mantelpiece behind the stove, with Mr. Bingle's reading glasses, both ready for use.

At six-thirty Mr. Diggs appeared, laden with bundles, and at his heels was Watson, carrying a tremendous basket. They were clad in huge fur overcoats, their faces were red from the cold, and their voices were vastly cheerful.

"Merry Christmas, sir," said Diggs, and "Merry Christmas, sir," said Watson.

"I've taken the liberty, sir—I mean to say, Watson and I 'ave, sir— of fetching with us a thumping big Christmas dinner for you, seeing as you will be quite alone and—er—you might say at peace again, sir. Melissa, my dear, you will find hall the delicacies of the season in these 'ere parcels, and I defy hanybody to show a finer turkey than is in that basket. Wot say, Watson?"

"Fit to set before the King," said Watson with great pride in his voice.

"Wherefore I say 'Long Live the King,'" said Diggs, bowing elaborately before Mr. Bingle, whose eyes were shining as he went forward to shake hands with his old servants.

"God bless my soul, I—I—I thank you, gentlemen," he murmured. "But, I say, wouldn't it be better to serve some of these things to-night, before the children go away? What dif—"

"Yes, yes!" shouted the children.

"Begging your pardon, Mr. Bingle," said Diggs firmly, "but it is not to be thought of, sir. This dinner is for you, and not a morsel is to be served until to-morrow noon. These 'ere kids will 'ave their little stomachs crammed full all day to-morrow and we hinsists that yours won't be if we don't keep a pretty firm hand on you to-night, sir. Take the things out in the kitchen, Watson, and—and 'ide 'em safe."

"Well, well," said Mr. Bingle helplessly. "I don't know what to say, Diggs. What would you say, Reginald, if any one was as nice to you as Mr. Diggs and Mr. Watson are to me?"

"I'd say open 'em up to-night and not be stingy," said Reginald, following Watson with greedy eyes.

Melissa glared at him. "Just for that I ought to hold back your share of the chicken dumplings, young man!" Then she got quite red in the face. Mr. Bingle was looking at her in amazement.

"Chicken dumplings?" he murmured.

"Well, you see, sir," said Melissa, "I thought as how it wouldn't matter to you if I went out on my own hook and got a few things for a Christmas Eve dinner—just a couple of nice fat hens, and some asparagus, and parsley, and sweet potatoes, and—well, just a few little things like that. Thinks I, we can't afford to let these children go away without a bang-up meal in their little insides, so's nobody could think they was ever hungry in their lives, and so this morning I just stepped out and—oh, yes, I forgot, sir, I DID get a few hot house grapes and one or two other trifles, just to make it seem real, not to mention some celery and olives and fruitcakes."

"Quite the thing, Melissa," said Diggs approvingly. "Quite the thing, my dear. And did the men deliver the ham and firewood I—ahem! I beg pardon!"

"Are we to have firewood for dinner to-night, Diggs?" inquired Mr. Bingle, his voice trembling a little despite his good-natured smile.

"Oh, you stupid, blundering English," cried Melissa in a voice that shrivelled Diggs.

"That's it, sir, I AM a stupid, blundering Englishman right enough. Blooming fool, sir, if you please. I didn't hintend to mention anythink but the ham. The confounded firewood slipped in, sir. 'Owever, I trust you'll overlook it, sir."

"I'm not overlooking firewood in this weather, Diggs," said Mr. Bingle drily. "Won't you sit down? Excuse me for not—"

"Oh, no, sir, thank you. I 'ave my duties to perform. Really, sir, I— "

"Go out into the kitchen, Mr. Diggs," commanded Melissa sharply. "God gave you a tongue, but he didn't give you anything to hold it with."

"Quite so, quite so," agreed the flustered Mr. Diggs, edging toward the kitchen whence through the open door came sounds of rattling pans and the penetrating but comforting scent of stewed chicken.

"It is good of you and Watson to come down this evening, Diggs," said Mr. Bingle, speaking with difficulty. "This must be the busiest night of the year for you. How could you afford to get away?"

"Well, sir," said Diggs, after looking to Melissa for approval or inspiration, "we decided as how Christmas comes but once a year, and as the boys in the shop can manage very nicely without us for a couple of hours, we says to ourselves we would come down and 'ear the 'Christmas Carol' if you don't mind, sir, for old times' sake. Miss Stokes—I mean to say, Mrs. Watson, will be along presently, sir. She stopped for a spell, to relieve the cashier while she went to supper. And—"

"That's enough, Mr. Diggs," interrupted Melissa. "You'll spoil it if you go on."

"Oh, I say, Melissa—"

"Out to the kitchen with you, and get out of that fur coat. You are perspiring like everything."

Mr. Bingle called Diggs back just as he was on the point of disappearing through the door.

"By the way, Diggs," he said, smiling broadly, "have you heard the news?"

"The news, sir? Is—is Mrs. Bingle—"

"Sh!" hissed Melissa.

"The news about Melissa. She is going to be married in this very room two weeks from to-night, Diggs. How is that for news?"

"Married? Good God, sir!" gasped Diggs.

"Married to you, Diggs, and I am going to give the bride away!"

"Oh, pshaw, Mr. Bingle!" cried Melissa, covering her flaming face with her apron.

"Do—do you mean it, Mr. Bingle?" cried Diggs, with beaming eyes.

"I do. I'm getting tired of seeing you two around, so I'm going to MAKE you get married. Now, don't say you'll refuse, Diggs, for—"

"Refuse! God bless you, sir—I—"

"You see," went on Mr. Bingle, coming to the poor fellow's relief, "I have a notion that Mrs. Bingle will be home by that time, and—and we'll get along very cosily here in—but, run along, Melissa! Bring in the feast! Hey, children?"

The children shouted vociferously, and Reginald, pursuing Melissa to the door, implored her to take back what she had said about the dumplings. To his surprise, Melissa kissed him.

Later on, Diggs returned from the kitchen and approached Mr. Bingle, who was sitting beside the stove with his back to the door, holding Rosemary and Rutherford on his knees.

"Dinner is served, sir," said Diggs in his most formal, dignified manner.

Mr. Bingle looked up, surprised by a voice that came resounding down from the past. The children were already staring open-mouthed at Diggs, who stood attired in his well-remembered dress-suit, the imposing, self-contained figure of a butler of the most approved type.

"God bless my soul," gasped Mr. Bingle.

"Quite so, sir," said Diggs smoothly. He drew out Mr. Bingle's chair, and the little man, completely dazed, sank abruptly into it. The children found their places, chattering like magpies.

"Lest they forget," said Diggs, leaning over to speak softly in Mr. Bingle's ear.

Then came Watson, in braid and buttons, stiff as a ramrod, chin high in the air, and as supercilious as any footman in all the world, carrying the soup. After a long, dry-eyed stare at the familiar figure that had always seemed so unreal to him in the days when everything belonged to fairyland, Mr. Bingle dropped his eyes and began fumbling blindly for the bone-handled fork at his plate.

He heard Frederick cry out: "I don't want to go away now, Daddy! Hurray! We've got Diggs and Watson back!" And then came the eager cries of many other voices, all of one accord. They wanted to stay! He suddenly knew why.

Tears were streaming down his cheeks. Through the mist that covered his eyes, he saw the champagne glass that stood alone beside his plate.



CHAPTER XVII

THE LAST TO ARRIVE

Mr. Bingle was an optimist. It seems hardly necessary to make this statement, but for the purpose of giving him a fair start along a new line of endeavour we resort to the distinctly obvious, and then announce that he brushed away the tears and laughed as gaily as any of them over the surprises that followed the one which momentarily caused him to falter. He was not given to looking upon the dark side of things. Even as he sat there at the head of the long table, he jocosely remarked to Diggs that he would have to borrow a saw from the janitor the next day and reduce the size of his board by five feet at least. Moreover, he could practice a little economy by cutting the excess timber up into kindling wood, and no doubt something could be saved by putting the over supply of china and glassware on the top shelves of the pantry where it would be safe from demolition unless the house took fire or an earthquake came along. Also a great deal more room could be obtained in the flat by making firewood of the extra chairs, to say nothing of the prospect of making a library and conservatory out of the bedroom to be vacated by the boys.

"As a matter of fact, Diggs, this flat isn't so bad as might appear, and the location is excellent. Quite handy for the Elevated, and not far from the river in case one wants to take a sail in pleasant weather. The view from the kitchen windows is capital. You could see East River quite plainly if it were not for the buildings. My idea is to put some plants in the room over there—the conservatory, I mean— and I expect to get a dog later on. Mrs. Bingle is very fond of dogs. See that window over there? Well, by sticking your head out of it a little way you can see clear to heaven."

"THAT window, sir?"

"Yes, sir, that very one."

"Why, it opens into the airshaft, sir."

"To be sure it does. You have to look straight upward, of course, if you want to see heaven, you know. And speaking of the airshaft, I am reminded that it is really quite a picturesque one at times. The windows across the way are sometimes very interesting, provided the shades are up. Usually, however, when the shades over yonder are up, I see to it that ours are down."

"May I fill your glass again, sir?"

"Is it empty?"

"Quite, sir."

"If you don't mind, Diggs, I think I shall save the rest of the wine until after the children have gone," said Mr. Bingle, slowly.

Diggs reflected. "Very good, sir. A splendid idea, sir."

"And then I shall ask you and Watson and Melissa and Mrs. Watson to drink with me to Mrs. Bingle."

"Thank you, sir."

"It does my heart good to see the way these young rascals eat, Diggs. They haven't had a dinner like this in a long time. Have a little more chicken, Wilberforce—and some Brussels sprouts. And how about you, Rutherford? Anything more?"

"I'll have some more soup, daddy," said Rutherford from his high chair. He was just ending the third course.

"Bless my soul!" exclaimed Mr. Bingle.

Melissa had come in to see that everything was going along in proper order. She looked hard at Mr. Bingle's plate and then at the gentleman himself. He met her reproachful gaze with one of mild apology.

"I'm saving my appetite for to-morrow, Melissa," he explained.

"You're not eating a thing," said Melissa sternly. "Mr. Diggs, what kind of a lummix are you? Can't you see that he's stinting himself so's them—"

"Now, Melissa," implored Mr. Bingle, "don't say anything on Christmas Eve that you'll be sorry for afterwards. It's all right, I assure you. I'm not very hungry and—"

"But there's more than enough to go 'round," burst out Melissa wrathfully. "There's no sense in your acting like this, Mr. Bingle."

"Sh!"

"Watson, give him some more of that chicken—the white meat, do you understand? And where's the dressing? Mr. Diggs, get those rolls over here—lively! Did he have any soup and fish? Did he—"

"Melissa, what are you trying to do?" demanded Mr. Bingle. "Stuff me so full I'll die in the night?"