“Eva Swallowtail,” she answered, as she turned a pair of trusting, innocent blue eyes full upon him.
The old man grew pale and his lips trembled as he gathered his grandchild in his arms. The other members of the committee softly left the room, for they all knew the story of Susan Scaffold’s mésalliance and her father’s bitter feelings toward her and her husband.
“What!” cried Jacob Scaffold, “my grandchild wanting bread? Come to me, little one, and we’ll see what can be done for you.”
And putting on his heavy ulster he took little Eva by the hand and led the way to the great thoroughfare, on which the stores were still open.
It was a happy family party that sat down to dinner in William Swallowtail’s humble home that bright Christmas day, and well did the little ones enjoy the treat which their generous new-found grandparent provided for them. They began with a soup made of wine jelly, and ended with a delicious dessert of corned-beef sandwiches and large German pickles; and then, when they could eat no more, and not even a pork pie could tempt their appetites, Grandpa Scaffold told his daughter that he was willing to lift his son-in-law from the hard and ill-paid labor of writing Society chronicles, and give him a chance to better himself with a whitewash brush. “And,” continued the old man, “if I see that he possesses true artistic talent, I will some day give him a chance at the side of a house.”
THE DYING GAG.
There was an affecting scene on the stage of a New York theatre the other night—a scene invisible to the audience and not down on the bills, but one far more touching and pathetic than anything enacted before the footlights that night, although it was a minstrel company that gave the entertainment.