Christmas was drawing near. The Bingle children, accustomed to manifold and expensive presents, were in a state of doubt and hope combined. The older ones realised that while Santa would not pass them by without a sign, there was every reason to believe that he would not deliver the things for which they slyly petitioned, the things they most desired. They had been brought up to receive all that they expected and the prospect ahead for them was not reassuring from the viewpoint their intelligence forced them to take. There were secret lamentations and not a few surly discussions in the absence of Mr. Bingle.

Melissa took the older boys to task for some of the things they said about their foster father. Frederick was the chief offender. He knew that Mr. Bingle's pocket-book was the real Santa Claus, and he wanted a pair of skates and a hockey outfit. Something told him that he would be compelled to accept in lieu of these necessities a silly overcoat or a pair of shoes from the cheap department store up the street. He was too young and no doubt too selfish to admit that he was by way of outgrowing his clothes at least once if not twice a year, or that there is such a spectre as wear and tear. He became sullen, irritable and not infrequently rude to Mr. Bingle. Once when Melissa sharply rebuked him for his ingratitude, he came back at her with an argument that baffled her for the time being: he could not see why Mr. Bingle had been so good to Kathleen. Why had she been given a rich, happy home while he and all of the others were brought to a place like this? Melissa, finding no immediate response to this, boxed his ears.

The younger members of the brood were not involved in this graceless agitation. The complaints stopped with Guinivere. Harold, Rosemary and Rutherford were too young to realise the state of destitution into which the family had fallen. They were quite happy, contented and, so far, unaware of the gravity of a situation which was more or less apparent to their elders. Frederick, Marie Louise and Wilberforce formed the higher group of malcontents, and their mutterings reached the acute ears of a second and less formidable group composed of Reginald, Henrietta and Guinivere. The influence of the three older children, envied and imitated by the next three in order of age, was responsible for the inclusion of this second group in the general tendency toward unruliness and resentfulness.

Mr. Bingle sensed this unhappy condition of affairs. His soul was sorely tried. Was he doing the right thing by these children? He was doing his best, but was his best all that they were entitled to under the circumstances? Was he depriving them of a bigger chance in life? He had taken them out of the byways, but was he leading them to the highways? The whining, peevish submission on the part of the larger boys and girls; the unmistakable interrogation that always lurked in their eyes; the frequent outbursts of temper; the quarrels that came up every day among them—all of these went to prove they were sliding back into the byways. There was no gainsaying that, he would say to himself. Insolence, insubordination grew apace. Once Frederick, in the heat of passion over a well-deserved rebuke, called him a "damned old fool."

Moreover, was he doing right by Mrs. Bingle? Was it possible that she might never come back to him who loved her more than he could have loved even a child of his own? Would he be the one to blame?

And so it came about that he finally consented to listen to the suggestions of the cold and unemotional Mrs. Force.

The wife of the president of the bank was the sort of person who gets into the newspapers by all the hooks and crooks known to her sex. To begin with, she made charity a business. As Chairman of two or three organizations declaring for the betterment of society, high and low, she was quoted on nearly every question that came up for discussion in the public prints. She recognised the advantage in her day of being an anti-suffragist. She saw the value of associating herself with the movement to create and maintain a bureau for the distribution of high class literature among low class readers, and she belonged to a society which elevated the stage by giving Sunday night dress rehearsals for the benefit of destitute millionaires. She had a conspicuous box at the Opera, and encouraged the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals by appearing at the Horse Show in Madison Garden without spurs.

But it was as President of the Society for the Restoration of King Manuel to the throne of Portugal that she arose above the ordinary multitude of publicity seekers. This was a movement so unique and so suggestive of pomp that many of the prominent show-girls tried to promote themselves into royal notice by joining the society. They were almost unanimously in favour of the Restoration. Mrs. Force was constantly being interviewed about the hopes and designs of King Manuel, and she was always quoted as saying that the "time is not yet ripe for the unfolding of our plans or I would be only too happy to tell you everything—and I may be able to give you something of interest next week if you will call me up."

Soon after the Bingle disaster, she allied herself with a Society for the Relief of Incompetent Parents, and later on took up the cause of Children's Rights and Wrongs. Quite palpably it was Mr. Bingle's dilemma that inspired her to interest herself in these hitherto neglected enterprises. She began her duties as a member and supporter of the causes by at once declaring war upon poor Mr. Bingle. She put him into a state of siege before he even suspected that hostilities had begun, and then constituted herself Red Cross nurse, sanitary expert, peace intermediary, and everything else that she could think of at the time.

Operations began in November. She had Mr. Bingle brought into her husband's private office at the bank, and there she explained the motives and objects of the Society and talked unrestrainedly of the rights of little children, calmly assuming that the astonished bookkeeper had no rights of his own and therefore was not entitled to a word in the shape of interruption.

"Purely as a matter of humanity, Mr. Bingle, it is necessary for the Society to take these children away from you. We are taking children away from their natural parents every day and finding suitable homes for them, so it isn't reasonable for you to stand in our way, realising, as you must, that you are not the father of a single one of those poor innocents, all of whom are morally if not legally the property of this or kindred societies. We do not recognise the rights of a parent, so why should we consider those of one who attempts, through a mistaken idea of benevolence, to direct the future, the destiny of—ah—the destiny of—But surely you know what I mean, Mr. Bingle. Now, I am not questioning the sincerity of your motives. I am heartily in accord with the original inspiration which led you to take these poor waifs into your home. But, don't you see, the idea works both ways. Charity begins at home, to be sure, but I submit that it all depends upon the character of the home. I do not call a four room flat a home. It may be all right for charity to begin there, in a small way, but it shouldn't drive out common sense, Mr. Bingle. The Society will take these children off of your hands. It will provide for them in every way. Come, now, give me a complete list of the little ones and—"

"I'll—I'll think it over, Mrs. Force," said Mr. Bingle desolately. "I can't be expected to see it from your point of view right at the start, you know. Let me go on for a year or two longer and then—"

"No," said she firmly, fixing him with a relentless eye. "We would regret exceedingly to be forced to call upon the authorities in the case, Mr. Bingle. Of course, you are aware that we can invoke the aid—"

"Oh, goodness no!" cried Mr. Bingle piteously. "You wouldn't think of taking them from me in that way, would you, Mrs. Force?"

"For your sake and for theirs it may be necessary," said she, and then wearying of her philanthropic labours, abruptly dismissed him with a curt: "And now, good day, Mr. Bingle."

Agents from the Society began to visit the little flat; others made a practice of seeing that the older children went to school every day, and, if they were absent, to pester Mr. Bingle with inquiries. Once when Wilberforce had a sore throat, a strange and extremely business-like doctor called and took a culture, at the same time making a note of the congested condition of the sleeping quarters.

Then Mrs. Force took to bringing fashionably dressed ladies to the flat so that they might see for themselves; and docile looking gentlemen in dark clothes and galoshes came to mutter over the extraordinary impropriety of allowing boys and girls to live in the same home together.

Soon after Napoleon was taken away by the bride and bridegroom, Mrs. Force came with her secretary and interviewed the children. The secretary took down notes while Mrs. Force put the questions to the older boys and girls. Mr. Bingle had been virtually ordered out of the room. Afterwards he was called in to hear the report which showed that Frederick, Marie Louise, Wilberforce and Reginald seldom had enough to eat, were always cold and unhappy, and were really quite eager to go into other homes, if it would help "poor daddy." The smaller children whimpered, but it was because they were overawed and frightened by Mrs. Force, who in the Seawood days had always been looked upon by them as the "bad fairy." Melissa, good soul, openly professed that she and Mr. Bingle could manage to take care of the "kids" all right, but in secret she prayed that the Society would take away a half a dozen or so of the little ingrates.

At last Mr. Bingle agreed to let the children go, but stipulated that they should be sent direct to private homes, and not go, like a flock of sheep, into an asylum or Orphans' Home from which they might be parcelled out singly to any Tom, Dick or Harry who came to look them over. He also insisted on having the prospective "bidders" apply to him in person. He would be the judge. He would look them over, and if they suited him, all well and good; if not, he would keep the children until the right and proper persons came along.

His stand was a firm one. He refused to recede an inch from this final position. In vain they argued that it would be the part of wisdom, in fact that it would be absolutely imperative to take them to a comfortable, commodious dormitory where the business end of such undertakings was attended to in routine order and not in the helter-skelter fashion that he advocated.

"I have just begun to realise," he said, "what it is to try to bring other people's children up for them, so, if you please, I submit that I know more about the business than this society knows or ever can hope to know. I have given them everything. I have loved them and they have loved me. In adversity I still love them, but I fear that I cannot say as much for them. They are not my flesh and blood. They know it, my friends—they've never been led to believe that anything else is the case. Now, I am ready and willing to carry out my obligations to them. I am prepared to do all that is in my power to bring them up in the right way, to make good men and women of them. I am not willing, however, to palm them off on other people without first telling those people what they are to expect. I do not blame these boys and girls for resenting what fate has brought them to. It is quite natural that they should feel as they do. I do not call it ingratitude. It is human nature. Even a small boy may reveal symptoms of human nature, Mrs. Force, if you get him into a corner. Now, I want to say to you and your friends here that I will let them go on one condition, and that is that each goes into a home that I personally approve of and only after I have told the head of that home all that I know about the child he seeks to adopt. I appreciate your interest in my behalf and I thank you for your untiring efforts. I believe that you are sincerely in earnest. But I ask you to do me the honour of permitting me to get out of my bad bargain in my own way and in my own time. There is no especial need of haste."

It was pointed out to him that many of those desiring to adopt children lived in distant states and cities, principally in small towns or upon farms. It might be impossible for them to come to New York to see him or the children. He still refused to give an inch.

And so the Society, satisfied that it had achieved a victory, set about to find fathers and mothers for the nine Bingles, and Mr. Bingle sat down to wait for the final struggle that was to come, or, more properly speaking, for the nine separate struggles that lay ahead of him. The children were told what they might expect in the near future, and Mr. Bingle's heart was sorely hurt by the very evident enthusiasm with which they received the news. The younger ones, swept along by the current, and less subtle than their elders, plied Mr. Bingle with a hundred eager, innocent questions, and every one of them seemed to look upon the coming separation as a lark! It was not unusual to catch two or three of the older ones slyly, but excitedly discussing the prospective change, and always they averted their eyes and dropped their voices when Mr. Bingle drew near. Once he heard Marie Louise say in anger to Wilberforce that she'd bet daddy would keep her to the last because she was getting big enough to wash dishes and make beds!

The poor man was beginning to lose faith, not in human nature alone, but in himself. He grimly remarked to Melissa one day that "it isn't safe to count chickens even after they are hatched, especially when your eyes are smarting. I thought I knew more than God, Melissa, and if there was a bramble bush handy I'd jump into it in the hope that I might scratch my eyes back in again, as the saying goes."

"Well, anyhow, Mr. Bingle," Melissa replied, impressed by this confession of failure, "as soon as the kids have left we'll have Mrs. Bingle back again, and that's something to look forward to, sir. We'll go back to the old way of living, which was the best, after all, wasn't it? Just you and me and Mrs. Bingle."

Mr. Bingle hesitated for a moment. "When you and Diggs are married, Melissa, don't make the mistake of adopting a child."

"We won't, sir," said Melissa confidently. She twisted the corner of her apron for a few seconds and then ventured hardily: "Miss Stokes is expecting a baby, sir."

"You mean Mrs. Watson, Melissa. Dear me, that is good news. A boy or a girl? God bless my soul, what a silly question! You see, I'm so in the habit of choosing the gender in advance that I quite forgot myself. I meant to inquire WHEN."

"They've been married five months, sir," said Melissa.

Two weeks before Christmas, Mrs. Force came to the bank to report to Mr. Bingle that homes were in view for six of the children, in fact for all except Frederick, Marie Louise and Wilberforce. It appears that people hesitate about taking youngsters as old as these three, and as steeped in vice and ignorance as naturally might be expected in boys and girls of that age. She said, however, that the Society was making a point of telling people how nicely and how advantageously all of the children had been reared by the late Mr. Bingle. She smiled when she said the "late Mr. Bingle," for it was a capital joke and she had every intention of making the most of it.

It was proposed that the applicants should meet Mr. Bingle and the children at the offices of the Society on the Saturday before Christmas, which fell on a Thursday.

Mr. Bingle objected. He said he couldn't think of letting them go before Christmas. These people would have to wait until after Christmas Eve, and that was final. President Force, coming to his wife's rescue, ironically suggested to the little bookkeeper that it was barely possible that other people were in the habit of inflicting children with "The Christmas Carol." He flushed, however, under the mild stare with which Mr. Bingle favoured him, and proceeded to change his tune with considerable alacrity. A happy thought seemed to have struck him with some suddenness.

"By Jove, Bingle, I have a splendid scheme. What could be more fitting than that these child-seekers should receive just what they want on Christmas morning? That's the ticket, my dear," he said, turning to his wife. "Fix it so that a child is delivered bright and early on Christmas morning—in its own stockings, of course—and there you are! A Merry Christmas for everybody, and perhaps a Happy New Year. What do you think of it, Bingle?"

"Splendid!" said Mr. Bingle. "I wish I could have thought of that when I was in the business myself. It would have been great to have a new baby every Christmas morning. I will agree to that, Mrs. Force, provided I approve of the people I'm supposed to be Santa Claus for."

On the Saturday before Christmas he went to the offices of the Society with ALL of the children, for the industrious Mrs. Force had produced claimants for the three older ones, and when he took the brood home to supper long after seven o'clock that evening, homes and fresh parents were assured for all of them. To be sure, Frederick and Marie Louise objected to living on upstate farms, and Reginald howled bitterly over being promised to a Jewish family in West End Avenue. He had set his heart on being brought up as an Irishman. Some of them were to remain in New York City, one was to go to Philadelphia and another to Bridgeport. Harold, Rosemary and Rutherford were to undergo a complete change of name. They were going into families where for sentimental reasons, a John, a Betty and a Jeremiah were wanted. Guinivere stood in grave danger of being called Prue, after somebody's grandmother, and Henrietta was to be shortened to Etta.

It was understood that the agents from the Society were to call for the youngsters on Christmas Eve, so that they might be ready for delivery the first thing in the morning. The Society was prepared to attend to all of the legal requirements incident to the transfer. Mr. Bingle was to sign what he quaintly called a "blanket affidavit," covering the entire collection, and that was to be the end of the Bingle regime.

Christmas Eve came at last. The day had been bitterly cold, and Mr. Bingle coming in from his final walk with the four small children, who had been taken out to see the lighted shop windows before the last supper they were to have together, was blue in the face and shivering as with a chill. Melissa caught him in the act of removing his muffler from Rosemary's neck. He had already taken his thin overcoat from Harold's shoulders, so she missed that part of his personal sacrifice. She asked with considerable asperity if he was trying to get pneumonia.

"No," said Mr. Bingle, struggling to keep his teeth from chattering; "I'm not, Melissa. I'm trying to head off the croup."

"You'll probably have it yourself to-night."

"I think that would be rather jolly," he said. "I haven't had it since I was the size of Rosemary."

She thought he was losing his mind, and told Diggs so when he came in at six o'clock to help her with the feast they were to have.

"Get away from that stove, Freddy, and you too, Marie Louise," she commanded. "Can't you see your daddy is shivering? Hustle now! Don't soak up all the heat in the room. Let him stand in front of the fire, you little—"

"Now, now, Melissa," said Mr. Bingle, reproachfully; "don't blame the kiddies. They're cold and—by the way, is there no steam in the radiator?"

"I shut off the measly thing awhile ago," she said. "There was too much cold air coming up through the pipes. Honestly, Mr. Bingle, if you happened to stand near that there radiator you'd feel a draft."

The children were dressed in their Sunday best, prepared for the coming exodus. They were neat and clean, and although six months had lengthened their bodies and shortened their garments, their patches and shreds were not so vindictive that they slapped Mr. Bingle's pride in face, if the metaphor is permissible.

"I hope," said he, with his thin shoulders close to the fire, "that we will have time for 'The Christmas Carol' before they—the—" his voice shook a little—"before the gentlemen come for you, kidlets. Perhaps if we were to hurry supper along a little bit, Melissa, we could manage it."

"I don't want to hear that thing again," said Frederick boldly. He appeared to be the leader of a movement to squash "The Christmas Carol."

"Neither do I," said Marie Louise and Wilberforce.

"I want to hear about Tiny Tim," piped up Rosemary, almost in tears.

"Well, you haven't heard it all your life like we have," said Frederick, scowling at the little one. "You've only heard it twice."

"Dear me," sighed Mr. Bingle, in evident distress. "Don't you want to hear 'The Carol' before you say good-bye to daddy—forever?"

"No," said Frederick; "and I'll bet they don't read it where we're going, either."

"Perhaps not, Frederick," said he slowly, turning a rather wistful face toward Melissa, who had come in with a pan full of coals. "There is one thing I quite forgot, Melissa."

"What's that, sir?"

"I forgot to stipulate that the 'Carol' HAD to be read on Christmas Eve in every one of these homes. Dear me, how could I have been so thoughtless."

"I wouldn't worry about that, sir. You're giving these people enough trouble without doing that to them. And as for you, Master Frederick, you'll probably find that instead of reading the 'Carol' to you they'll take you out in the woodshed and give you a touch of Dante's Infernal every once in awhile."

"I'll—I'll kill 'em if they do," cried Frederick loudly.

"Frederick the Great!" exclaimed Melissa with vast scorn. "Here now, you there, get to work and fetch the chairs and stools in from the bedrooms and put 'em up to the table. There's a couple in the kitchen, Wilber. Hustle out and—"

"Don't call me Wilber," snapped Wilberforce. "Haven't I always told you I hate it? Remember you're only a servant. Don't you go—"

"Tut, tut!" exclaimed Mr. Bingle, moving over so that Melissa could drop the coals into the stove. "Remember you are only a gentleman, Wilberforce."

"I'd like to know how I can remember it in a place like this," pouted the boy.

"It's all right, Mr. Bingle," said Melissa cheerily, "I don't mind being called a servant. It's better than 'hired girl.'"

There was a pathetic attempt at seasonable illumination and decoration in the crowded living-room, sprigs of holly, some tapers and tinsel, cotton snowballs and popcorn strands being in the least congested corners, and the table had ten candles standing in two sedate rows. These were not to be lighted until just before soup was served, and each participant at the board was to light his or her candle from the taper supplied by Melissa.

Over in one corner of the room reposed a small pile of packages, each neatly tied up with red ribbon. These represented the gifts of Mr. Bingle and Melissa to the palpably indifferent youngsters. Two bottles of milk stood on the radiator, which, according to Melissa, was infinitely colder than the ice box in the pantry. Incidentally, it is worth while to mention that in one of the bedrooms there were nine compactly wrapped bundles, each marked by a name, but not tied up in red ribbon. They contained the few belongings of the nine children, and they were all ready for the coming of the Society's agents. During the day Mrs. Force had sent her automobile and a footman to remove the toys and treasures left over from the reign of plenty, taking them to headquarters for future distribution among their owners. This was done while Mr. Bingle was at the bank. He could not have endured this part of the business.

The Christmas Carol lay on the mantelpiece behind the stove, with Mr. Bingle's reading glasses, both ready for use.

At six-thirty Mr. Diggs appeared, laden with bundles, and at his heels was Watson, carrying a tremendous basket. They were clad in huge fur overcoats, their faces were red from the cold, and their voices were vastly cheerful.

"Merry Christmas, sir," said Diggs, and "Merry Christmas, sir," said Watson.

"I've taken the liberty, sir—I mean to say, Watson and I 'ave, sir—of fetching with us a thumping big Christmas dinner for you, seeing as you will be quite alone and—er—you might say at peace again, sir. Melissa, my dear, you will find hall the delicacies of the season in these 'ere parcels, and I defy hanybody to show a finer turkey than is in that basket. Wot say, Watson?"

"Fit to set before the King," said Watson with great pride in his voice.

"Wherefore I say 'Long Live the King,'" said Diggs, bowing elaborately before Mr. Bingle, whose eyes were shining as he went forward to shake hands with his old servants.

"God bless my soul, I—I—I thank you, gentlemen," he murmured. "But, I say, wouldn't it be better to serve some of these things to-night, before the children go away? What dif—"

"Yes, yes!" shouted the children.

"Begging your pardon, Mr. Bingle," said Diggs firmly, "but it is not to be thought of, sir. This dinner is for you, and not a morsel is to be served until to-morrow noon. These 'ere kids will 'ave their little stomachs crammed full all day to-morrow and we hinsists that yours won't be if we don't keep a pretty firm hand on you to-night, sir. Take the things out in the kitchen, Watson, and—and 'ide 'em safe."

"Well, well," said Mr. Bingle helplessly. "I don't know what to say, Diggs. What would you say, Reginald, if any one was as nice to you as Mr. Diggs and Mr. Watson are to me?"

"I'd say open 'em up to-night and not be stingy," said Reginald, following Watson with greedy eyes.

Melissa glared at him. "Just for that I ought to hold back your share of the chicken dumplings, young man!" Then she got quite red in the face. Mr. Bingle was looking at her in amazement.

"Chicken dumplings?" he murmured.

"Well, you see, sir," said Melissa, "I thought as how it wouldn't matter to you if I went out on my own hook and got a few things for a Christmas Eve dinner—just a couple of nice fat hens, and some asparagus, and parsley, and sweet potatoes, and—well, just a few little things like that. Thinks I, we can't afford to let these children go away without a bang-up meal in their little insides, so's nobody could think they was ever hungry in their lives, and so this morning I just stepped out and—oh, yes, I forgot, sir, I DID get a few hot house grapes and one or two other trifles, just to make it seem real, not to mention some celery and olives and fruitcakes."

"Quite the thing, Melissa," said Diggs approvingly. "Quite the thing, my dear. And did the men deliver the ham and firewood I—ahem! I beg pardon!"

"Are we to have firewood for dinner to-night, Diggs?" inquired Mr. Bingle, his voice trembling a little despite his good-natured smile.

"Oh, you stupid, blundering English," cried Melissa in a voice that shrivelled Diggs.

"That's it, sir, I AM a stupid, blundering Englishman right enough. Blooming fool, sir, if you please. I didn't hintend to mention anythink but the ham. The confounded firewood slipped in, sir. 'Owever, I trust you'll overlook it, sir."

"I'm not overlooking firewood in this weather, Diggs," said Mr. Bingle drily. "Won't you sit down? Excuse me for not—"

"Oh, no, sir, thank you. I 'ave my duties to perform. Really, sir, I—"

"Go out into the kitchen, Mr. Diggs," commanded Melissa sharply. "God gave you a tongue, but he didn't give you anything to hold it with."

"Quite so, quite so," agreed the flustered Mr. Diggs, edging toward the kitchen whence through the open door came sounds of rattling pans and the penetrating but comforting scent of stewed chicken.

"It is good of you and Watson to come down this evening, Diggs," said Mr. Bingle, speaking with difficulty. "This must be the busiest night of the year for you. How could you afford to get away?"

"Well, sir," said Diggs, after looking to Melissa for approval or inspiration, "we decided as how Christmas comes but once a year, and as the boys in the shop can manage very nicely without us for a couple of hours, we says to ourselves we would come down and 'ear the 'Christmas Carol' if you don't mind, sir, for old times' sake. Miss Stokes—I mean to say, Mrs. Watson, will be along presently, sir. She stopped for a spell, to relieve the cashier while she went to supper. And—"

"That's enough, Mr. Diggs," interrupted Melissa. "You'll spoil it if you go on."

"Oh, I say, Melissa—"

"Out to the kitchen with you, and get out of that fur coat. You are perspiring like everything."

Mr. Bingle called Diggs back just as he was on the point of disappearing through the door.

"By the way, Diggs," he said, smiling broadly, "have you heard the news?"

"The news, sir? Is—is Mrs. Bingle—"

"Sh!" hissed Melissa.

"The news about Melissa. She is going to be married in this very room two weeks from to-night, Diggs. How is that for news?"

"Married? Good God, sir!" gasped Diggs.

"Married to you, Diggs, and I am going to give the bride away!"

"Oh, pshaw, Mr. Bingle!" cried Melissa, covering her flaming face with her apron.

"Do—do you mean it, Mr. Bingle?" cried Diggs, with beaming eyes.

"I do. I'm getting tired of seeing you two around, so I'm going to MAKE you get married. Now, don't say you'll refuse, Diggs, for—"

"Refuse! God bless you, sir—I—"

"You see," went on Mr. Bingle, coming to the poor fellow's relief, "I have a notion that Mrs. Bingle will be home by that time, and—and we'll get along very cosily here in—but, run along, Melissa! Bring in the feast! Hey, children?"

The children shouted vociferously, and Reginald, pursuing Melissa to the door, implored her to take back what she had said about the dumplings. To his surprise, Melissa kissed him.

Later on, Diggs returned from the kitchen and approached Mr. Bingle, who was sitting beside the stove with his back to the door, holding Rosemary and Rutherford on his knees.

"Dinner is served, sir," said Diggs in his most formal, dignified manner.

Mr. Bingle looked up, surprised by a voice that came resounding down from the past. The children were already staring open-mouthed at Diggs, who stood attired in his well-remembered dress-suit, the imposing, self-contained figure of a butler of the most approved type.

"God bless my soul," gasped Mr. Bingle.

"Quite so, sir," said Diggs smoothly. He drew out Mr. Bingle's chair, and the little man, completely dazed, sank abruptly into it. The children found their places, chattering like magpies.

"Lest they forget," said Diggs, leaning over to speak softly in Mr. Bingle's ear.

Then came Watson, in braid and buttons, stiff as a ramrod, chin high in the air, and as supercilious as any footman in all the world, carrying the soup. After a long, dry-eyed stare at the familiar figure that had always seemed so unreal to him in the days when everything belonged to fairyland, Mr. Bingle dropped his eyes and began fumbling blindly for the bone-handled fork at his plate.

He heard Frederick cry out: "I don't want to go away now, Daddy! Hurray! We've got Diggs and Watson back!" And then came the eager cries of many other voices, all of one accord. They wanted to stay! He suddenly knew why.

Tears were streaming down his cheeks. Through the mist that covered his eyes, he saw the champagne glass that stood alone beside his plate.