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?"