To-night Mr. Broadstreet had picked up the “Carol” in a specially complacent mood. He had spent liberally in Christmas gifts for his wife and children, letting himself almost defy his better judgment by purchasing for the former an expensive pin she had seen and fancied in a show window the week before. Just as he had completed the bargain a rescript had come down from the Supreme Court affirming judgment in his favor in a case which meant at least a five-thousand-dollar fee.
Notwithstanding the memory of his recent good luck, he continued, on this particular evening, of all evenings in the year, to knit his brows and give unmistakable evidence that some emotion or reflection, not altogether pleasant, was stirring him powerfully.
“Nonsense!” said Mr. Broadstreet presently, half aloud, as if he were addressing some one in the center of the glowing coals. “Nonsense!” he repeated, looking hard at a grotesque, carved figure that supported the mantel: “I’m not like Scrooge. I give freely and I spend freely. That fire don’t look much like the one old Scrooge warmed his gruel over, does it now?”
The marble figure making no answer to this appeal, but continuing his stony gaze, Mr. Broadstreet shifted his position again uneasily. “Don’t I give away hundreds of dollars every year to the Societies, and haven’t I left them a round ten thousand in my will? Won’t somebody mourn for me, eh?”