"There was a tremendous roar, as from the great Bull of Bashan; the countenance of the fine, fleshy old English gentleman became livid, and, in the deep anguish of his soul, he saluted the disturber of his peace with a tremendous—KICK!
"The black rod vanished in a moment from the hand of Mr. R. Fennarf, and his very soul jumped for joy.
"'Merry Christmas!' he shouted, violently shaking the hand of the now bewildered old gentleman with the plum nose.
"Then, on he darted toward his house. It was lighted up in every window. There was music in the house, too, and dancing. In he flew, with a delightful presentiment of what was going on. Sure enough, his daughter Alexandra had come home, with her husband the potboy, and a score of friends, and all hands were hard at a cotillon.
"'Father, forgive us!' screamed Alexandra.
"'Your pariental blessing,' suggested the potboy with much feeling.
"'Support them for life,' murmured the friends.
"'My children,' said Mr. R. Fennarf, rubbing his back, 'you must forgive me. Henceforth we live together, and celebrate every coming Christmas-eve by meeting all our friends again, as now. I am a new man from this time forth; for on this very night I have learned a great and useful lesson.'
"Then all was jollity again, and the potboy, notwithstanding the shortness of his legs, danced like a veritable Christy minstrel.
"Meantime, a certain retired hackney-coachman in the company, who had attentively noted the reconciliation of father and daughter, called the former into a corner of the room, and said very gravely to him: