"You will come every Christmas Eve, won't you, Deary?" he said.
"Yes, Daddy," murmured Kathleen, between the sobs that Tiny Tim had drawn from her soft little heart. "Every Christmas Eve, Daddy?"
"Then it won't be so bad as it seems now," he said gently. Not a word said he of the nine children who had gone away.
Mr. Force had glanced surreptitiously at his watch at least a dozen times during the reading of the story. An anxious frown settled on his brow and an observer might have remarked the strange, listening attitude that he affected at times, such as the alert cocking of his head and an intense squinting of the eyes.
"Now, if my dear Mary could only pop in on us and—" but Mr. Bingle choked up suddenly and turned his attention to the stirring of the coals in the stove.
The door-bell pealed again, this time with surprising authority and decision. Mr. Bingle started as if shot. As he faced the little hall, his eyes were wide with an incredulous stare of wonder.
"Good God in heaven," he murmured, "can it be possible that—but no! It cannot be Mary. That would be too wonderful. Watson—Melissa, will you please see who's—who's there?"
As rigid as a post he stood over the stove, holding the poker in his hand, his eyes fastened upon the door as Watson sprang to open it. The cheerful voice of old Dr. Fiddler—the GREAT Dr. Fiddler—came roaring into the room ahead of its owner.
"By the Lord Harry, it's a cold night—Hello! What's this? Liveried servants again? Well, upon my soul, I—Ah, there you are, Bingle! How are you, Force?"
The next instant he was wringing Mr. Bingle's hand and booming Christmas greetings to every one in hearing—and out of it, for that matter, such a voice he had!