Peter. (Reading.) And he took a child and set him in the midst of them.
Scro. Where have I heard those words? I have not dreamed them. Why does he not go on?
Mrs C. (Betrays emotions; lays her work upon the table, and puts her hand to her face.) The color hurts my eyes.
Bel. Yes, poor Tiny Tim!
Mrs. C. They're better now. It makes them weak by candle-light; and I wouldn't show weak eyes to your father when he comes home, for the world. It must be near his time. (Resumes her work.)
Peter. Past it, rather (shutting up book), but I think he has walked a little slower than he used, these last few evenings, mother.
Mrs. C. (In a faltering voice.) I have known him walk with—I have known him walk with Tiny Tim upon his shoulder very fast indeed.
Peter. And so have I, often.
Bel. And so have I.
Mrs. C. But he was very light to carry, and his father loved him so, that it was no trouble; no trouble. And there is your father at the door.