Scro. Can this be the Spirit of Christmas Future that I see approaching? shrouded in a black garment, which conceals its head, its form, its face, and leaves nothing visible save one outstretched hand. I am in the presence of the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come. It points onward with its hand. You are about to show me the shadows of things that have not happened, but will happen in the time before us. Is that so, Spirit? (Rises and stands trembling.) Ghost of the Future, I fear you more than any spectre I have seen; but as I know your purpose is to do me good, and as I hope to live to be another man from what I was, I am prepared to bear you company, and do it with a thankful heart. Will you not speak to me? It will not speak. The hand points straight before us. Lead on! Lead on! The night is waning fast, and it is precious time to me, I know. Lead on, Spirit.

(Scrooge crosses stage, as if following Spirit to tormentor entrance, and remains while the scene changes.)

Scro. Ah, here comes Stevens and there Jones. I have always made it a point to stand well in their esteem—that is in a business point of view.

Stevens. How are you?

Jones. Pretty well. So Old Scratch has got his own, at last, hey?

Stev. So I am told. Cold, isn't it?

Jones. Seasonable for Christmas-time. You're not a skater, I suppose?

Stev. No, no. Something else to think of. Good morning. [Exeunt in opposite directions.]

Scro. Ah, here are more of my old business friends; the Spirit directs me to hear what they say.

Mr. F. No; I don't know much about it, either way; I only know he's dead.

Mr. R. When did he die?

Mr. F. Last night, I believe.

Mr. S. Why, what was the matter with him? (Takes snuff out of a large snuff-box.) I thought he would never die.

Mr. F. I did not take the trouble to inquire.

Mr. R. What has he done with his money?

Mr. F. I haven't heard (yawning); left it to his company, perhaps. He hasn't left it to me. That's all I know. (All laugh.) It's likely to be a very cheap funeral, for upon my life I don't know of any body to go to it. Suppose we make up a party and volunteer?

Mr. R. I don't mind going if a lunch is provided. I must be fed if I make one. (All laugh.)

Mr. F. Well, I am the most disinterested, after all, for I never wear black gloves and I never eat lunch. But I'll offer to go, if any body else will. When I come to think of it, I am not at all sure that I wasn't his most particular friend; for we used to stop and speak whenever we met.

Mr. S. I would volunteer, but that I have another little matter to attend to that will prevent me. However, I have no objections to joining you in a drink to his memory.

Mr. R. I am with you. Let us adjourn to the punch bowl. [Exeunt.]

Scro. To whom can these allusions refer; Jacob Marley has been dead these seven years, and surely those whom I have considered my best friends would not speak of my death so unfeelingly. I suppose, however, that these conversations have some latent moral for my own improvement, and as I have now resolved upon a change of life, I shall treasure up all I see and hear. Lead on, Shadow, I follow! (Crosses to the opposite entrance and remains.)

Old Joe. You couldn't have met in a better place; come in. You were made free here long ago, you know, and the other two ain't strangers. Stop till I shut the door of the shop. Ah! how it shrieks! There isn't such a rusty bit of metal in the place as its own hinges, I believe, and I'm sure there's no such old bones here as mine. Ha, ha! We're all suitable to our calling, we're well matched. Come, come! we are at home here. (Trims smoky lamp at table.)

Mrs. M. What odds, then! What odds, Mrs. Dilber? (Throws her bundle on the floor and sits on a stool, resting her elbows on her knees.) Every person has a right to take care of themselves. He always did.

Mrs. D. That's true, indeed! No man cared for himself more than he did.

Mrs. M. Why, then, don't stand staring as if you was afraid, woman; who's the wiser? We're not going to pick holes in each other's coats, I suppose?

Mr. Shroud. No, indeed! We should hope not.

Mrs. M. Very well, then: that's enough. Who's the worse for the loss of a few things like these? Not a dead man, I suppose.

Mr. S. (Laughing.) No, indeed.

Mrs. M. If he wanted to keep 'em after he was dead, the wicked old Screw, why wasn't he natural in his life time? If he had been, he'd have had somebody to look after him when he was struck with death, instead of lying gasping out his last there, alone by himself.

Mrs. D. It's the truest word ever was spoke. It's a judgment on him.

Mrs. M. I wish it was a little heavier judgment, and it should have been, you may depend upon it, if I could have laid my hands on anything else. Open that bundle, Old Joe, and let me know the value of it. Speak out plain. I'm not afraid to be the first, nor afraid to let them see it. We knew pretty well that we were helping ourselves, before we met here, I believe. It's no sin. Open the bundle, Joe.

Mr. S. Oh, no; we don't mind showing what we have. Here, Joe, value these. (Mrs. D. and Mr. S. lay their packages on the table and Joe proceeds to examine them.)

Joe. (Chalking the figures on the wall as he names them.) A seal, eight shillings; pencil-case, three and six pence; pair of sleeve-buttons, five and four-pence; scarf-pin, ninepence. Nine and four, thirteen, and six, is nineteen—seven. One and five's six, and thirteen is nine, and eight makes seventeen. That's your account, and I wouldn't give another sixpence if I was to be boiled for it. Who's next?

Mrs. D. I hope you'll be more liberal with me, Mr. Joe. I'm a poor, lone widow, and it's hard for me to make a living.

Joe. I always give too much to the ladies. It's a weakness of mine, and that's the way I ruin myself. Under-clothing, sheets, towels, sugar-tongs; these tea-spoons are old-fashioned, and the boots won't bear mending. One pound six, that's your account. If you asked me another penny, and made it an open question I'd repent of being liberal, and knock off half a crown.

Mrs. M. Now, undo my bundle, Joe.

Joe. (Opening bundle.) What do you call this? Bed curtains?

Mrs. M. Ah! (Laughing.) Bed curtains.

Joe. You don't mean to say you took 'em down, rings and all, with Old Scrooge lying there?

Mrs. M. Yes I do. Why not?

Joe. You were born to make your fortune, and you'll certainly do it.

Mrs. M. I certainly shan't hold my hand, when I can get anything in it by reaching it out, for the sake of such a man as he was, I promise you, Joe. Don't drop that oil upon the blanket, now.

Joe. His blankets?

Mrs. M. Whose else's do you think? He isn't likely to take cold without 'em, I dare say.

Joe. I hope he didn't die of anything catching. Eh? (Stopping his work and looking up.)

Mrs. M. Don't you be afraid of that: I ain't so fond of his company that I'd loiter about him for such things if he did. Ah, you may look through that shirt till your eyes ache, but you won't find a hole in it nor a thread-bare place. It's the best he had, and a fine one, too. They'd have wasted it if it hadn't been for me.

Joe. What do you call wasting of it?

Mrs. M. (laughing.) Putting it on him to be buried in, to be sure. Somebody was fool enough to do it, but I took it off again. If calico ain't good enough for such a purpose, it isn't good enough for anything. It's as becoming to the body. He can't look uglier than he did in that one.

Joe. Well, well! I'll ruin myself again. I'll give you two guineas for the lot, and go to the bankrupt court. (Takes bag of coin and counts out their amounts.)

Mrs. M. Ha, ha! This is the end of it, you see. He frightened every one away from him when he was alive, to profit us when he was dead.

All. Ha, ha, ha! [Exeunt door in flat, old Joe lighting them out.]

Scro. Spirit! I see, I see. This is my own case, if nothing happens to change it. My life tends this way. Spirit, in leaving this. I shall not leave its lesson; trust me. If there is any person in the city who feels the least emotion for the death here announced, show that person to me. [Crosses to L., while scene closes in.]

Scro. Why, here is my place of business, and has been occupied by Scrooge & Marley for many years. I see the house, let me behold what I shall be in the days to come. Why, Spirit, the house is yonder. Why do you point away? (Goes to the window and looks in.) It is the old office still; the same furniture; but no one occupies my chair. Ah! some one comes.

Mrs. B. Ah! James. I have waited for you so long. What news? Is it good or bad?

James. Bad.

Mrs B. We are quite ruined?

James. No. There is hope yet, Caroline.

Mrs. B. If he relents, there is. Nothing is past hope, if such a miracle has happened.

James. He is past relenting. He is dead.

Mrs. B. Dead! Thank Heaven; we are saved. (Pause.) I pray forgiveness, I am sorry that I gave expression to the emotions of my heart.

James. What the half drunken woman, whom I told you of last night, said to me when I tried to see him and obtain a week's delay, and what I thought was a mere excuse to avoid me, turns out to have been quite true. He was not only very ill, but dying then.

Mrs. B. To whom will our debt be transferred?

James. I don't know, and I have been unable to ascertain. At all events, before that time we shall be ready with the money; and even though we were not, it would be a bad fortune indeed to find so merciless a creditor in his successor. We may sleep to-night with light hearts, Caroline!

Mrs. B. Yes; and our dear children will be brighter when they find the gloom dispelled from the minds of their parents. We cannot deny that this man's death has occasioned some happiness.

James. Come, let us hurry home [Exeunt, R.]

Scro. Spirit, it is evident that the only emotion you can show me, caused by the event foreshadowed, is one of pleasure. Let me see some tenderness connected with the death of another, or what has just been shown me will be forever present in my mind.

Peter. (Reading.) And he took a child and set him in the midst of them.

Scro. Where have I heard those words? I have not dreamed them. Why does he not go on?

Mrs C. (Betrays emotions; lays her work upon the table, and puts her hand to her face.) The color hurts my eyes.

Bel. Yes, poor Tiny Tim!

Mrs. C. They're better now. It makes them weak by candle-light; and I wouldn't show weak eyes to your father when he comes home, for the world. It must be near his time. (Resumes her work.)

Peter. Past it, rather (shutting up book), but I think he has walked a little slower than he used, these last few evenings, mother.

Mrs. C. (In a faltering voice.) I have known him walk with—I have known him walk with Tiny Tim upon his shoulder very fast indeed.

Peter. And so have I, often.

Bel. And so have I.

Mrs. C. But he was very light to carry, and his father loved him so, that it was no trouble; no trouble. And there is your father at the door.

Bob. Hard at work, my dears; hard at work. Why, how industrious you are, and what progress you are making. You will be done long before Sunday.

Mrs. C. Sunday! You went to-day, then, Robert?

Bob. Yes, my dear; I wish you could have gone, it would have done you good to see how green a place it is. But you'll see it often. I promised him that I would walk there on a Sunday. My little, little child! my little child! (Rises and retires up stage to compose himself; returns and resumes his place at the table.) Oh, I must tell you of the extraordinary kindness of Mr Scrooge's nephew, whom I have scarcely seen but once, and who, meeting me in the street, and seeing that I looked a little—just a little—down, you know, inquired what had happened to distress me. On which, for he is the pleasantest-spoken gentleman you ever heard, I told him. I am heartily sorry for it, Mr. Cratchit, he said, and heartily sorry for your good wife. By-the-bye, how he ever knew that, I don't know.

Mrs. C. Knew what, my dear?

Bob. Why, that you were a good wife.

Peter. Everybody knows that!

Bob. Very well observed, my boy. I hope they do. Heartily sorry, he said, for your good wife. If I can be of service to you in any way, he said, giving me his card, that's where I live; pray come to me. Now, it wasn't for the sake of anything he might be able to do for us, so much as for his kind way, that this was quite delightful. It really seemed as if he had known our Tiny Tim, and felt with us.

Mrs. C. I'm sure he's a good soul.

Bob. You would be sure of it, my dear, if you saw and spoke to him. I shouldn't be at all surprised—mark my words—if he got Peter a better situation.

Mrs. C. Only hear that, Peter.

Bel. And then Peter will be keeping company with some one, and setting up for himself.

Peter. (Grinning.) Get along with you!

Bob. It's just as likely as not, one of these days; though there's plenty of time for that, my dear. But, however and whenever we part from one another, I am sure we shall none of us forget poor Tiny Tim, shall we?

All. Never, father.

Bob. And I know, I know, my dears, that when we recollect how patient and how mild he was—although he was a little child—we shall not quarrel easily among ourselves, and forget poor Tiny Tim in doing it.

All. No, never, father. (All rise.)

Bob. I am very happy. I am very happy! (Kisses Mrs C., Belinda, Young C. and shakes hands with Peter.) Spirit of Tiny Tim, thy childish essence is from above.

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