Then came the distribution of presents. A footman brought up numerous gifts from the rich Kathleen to her one time foster brothers and sisters. They had nothing to give to her in return, and Mr. Bingle afterwards said that it was greatly to their credit that they were able to look at him with an accusation in their eyes, for, said he, it went to prove that they were mortified over not being in a position to observe the old rule about giving and receiving. As a matter of fact, several of them tried to transfer to Kathleen the simple, inexpensive presents he had just given to them out of his own humble pile, all of which, he argued, went far toward establishing his point, notwithstanding the fact that they manifestly despised the very things they were so ready to give away. He overheard Frederick whispering to Kathleen that he hoped he was going to a place where he could have enough money to buy her the right kind of a present for her next Christmas, and that it was rotten luck to be as poor as all this. Mr. Bingle strained his ears to catch Kathleen's reply, and it was such that his face brightened; he afterwards sidled up to her and stroked her hair with loving, gentle fingers.
There was one rather large, cumbersome pasteboard box in the corner, which Diggs passed up to him the last of all.
"Don't open it till to-morrow, Mr. Bingle," said Melissa in a panic, whereupon Diggs jerked it away from him with more haste than good manners. It was marked quite plainly: "To Mr. Bingle from Melissa," and bright and early the next morning it turned out to be a fur lined overcoat.
Once more Melissa was dragged into the kitchen, this time by the furtive, uneasy Mr. Force. While they were out of the room a messenger boy came to the front door with a small package for Mr. Bingle.
"Ah, at last, something from Mary. I was sure she wouldn't forget me on Christmas Eve. She never has and I'm sure—Hello! This isn't her writing. 'Monsieur Thomas Singleton Bingle.' Now what can—"
"Open it, Daddy," cried Kathleen.
"Stand back! Maybe it's an infernal machine. These anarchists are blowing up all the rich men in town nowadays. This may be the end of me. Ah!" He had cut the string with a carving knife and now exposed to view a box of cigars. There was a card attached. With some difficulty he made out: "From your life-long friend, with best wishes for a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year." It was signed by "Napoleon."
Mr. Force had closed the door behind him. He spoke in a hoarse whisper, after a curt nod of the head to Mrs. Watson, who was vainly trying to wash the dishes and at the same time see all that was going on in the outer room.
"See here, young woman, I want you to give these two envelopes to Mr. Bingle when he comes in to breakfast in the morning." He produced two long blue envelopes and thrust them into her hand. "Not a word to him to-night, d'you hear? Put them under your pillow and sleep on 'em—with one eye open if possible."
"Good gracious," she said, with her broadest grin, "I shan't sleep for a week. They look terribly important."