Mr. Bingle was an optimist. It seems hardly necessary to make this statement, but for the purpose of giving him a fair start along a new line of endeavour we resort to the distinctly obvious, and then announce that he brushed away the tears and laughed as gaily as any of them over the surprises that followed the one which momentarily caused him to falter. He was not given to looking upon the dark side of things. Even as he sat there at the head of the long table, he jocosely remarked to Diggs that he would have to borrow a saw from the janitor the next day and reduce the size of his board by five feet at least. Moreover, he could practice a little economy by cutting the excess timber up into kindling wood, and no doubt something could be saved by putting the over supply of china and glassware on the top shelves of the pantry where it would be safe from demolition unless the house took fire or an earthquake came along. Also a great deal more room could be obtained in the flat by making firewood of the extra chairs, to say nothing of the prospect of making a library and conservatory out of the bedroom to be vacated by the boys.

"As a matter of fact, Diggs, this flat isn't so bad as might appear, and the location is excellent. Quite handy for the Elevated, and not far from the river in case one wants to take a sail in pleasant weather. The view from the kitchen windows is capital. You could see East River quite plainly if it were not for the buildings. My idea is to put some plants in the room over there—the conservatory, I mean—and I expect to get a dog later on. Mrs. Bingle is very fond of dogs. See that window over there? Well, by sticking your head out of it a little way you can see clear to heaven."

"THAT window, sir?"

"Yes, sir, that very one."

"Why, it opens into the airshaft, sir."

"To be sure it does. You have to look straight upward, of course, if you want to see heaven, you know. And speaking of the airshaft, I am reminded that it is really quite a picturesque one at times. The windows across the way are sometimes very interesting, provided the shades are up. Usually, however, when the shades over yonder are up, I see to it that ours are down."

"May I fill your glass again, sir?"

"Is it empty?"

"Quite, sir."

"If you don't mind, Diggs, I think I shall save the rest of the wine until after the children have gone," said Mr. Bingle, slowly.

Diggs reflected. "Very good, sir. A splendid idea, sir."

"And then I shall ask you and Watson and Melissa and Mrs. Watson to drink with me to Mrs. Bingle."

"Thank you, sir."

"It does my heart good to see the way these young rascals eat, Diggs. They haven't had a dinner like this in a long time. Have a little more chicken, Wilberforce—and some Brussels sprouts. And how about you, Rutherford? Anything more?"

"I'll have some more soup, daddy," said Rutherford from his high chair. He was just ending the third course.

"Bless my soul!" exclaimed Mr. Bingle.

Melissa had come in to see that everything was going along in proper order. She looked hard at Mr. Bingle's plate and then at the gentleman himself. He met her reproachful gaze with one of mild apology.

"I'm saving my appetite for to-morrow, Melissa," he explained.

"You're not eating a thing," said Melissa sternly. "Mr. Diggs, what kind of a lummix are you? Can't you see that he's stinting himself so's them—"

"Now, Melissa," implored Mr. Bingle, "don't say anything on Christmas Eve that you'll be sorry for afterwards. It's all right, I assure you. I'm not very hungry and—"

"But there's more than enough to go 'round," burst out Melissa wrathfully. "There's no sense in your acting like this, Mr. Bingle."

"Sh!"

"Watson, give him some more of that chicken—the white meat, do you understand? And where's the dressing? Mr. Diggs, get those rolls over here—lively! Did he have any soup and fish? Did he—"

"Melissa, what are you trying to do?" demanded Mr. Bingle. "Stuff me so full I'll die in the night?"

"And him lookin' that thin and pale and peaked," went on Melissa, glaring at the unhappy butler and footman. "What have you got them buttons and that striped vest for, Watson? Are you here as a spectator? Get a move on now, both of you. And as for you, Mr. Bingle, I'm going to stand right here and SEE that you eat. Do you suppose I got up this meal for a joke on myself? Not much! The mashed potatoes, Watson! Never mind, Freddy, you can have some more after your daddy's had all he wants. Gee whiz, I'm glad I happened to come in when I did!"

Presently the door-bell rang—a feeble, broken tinkle reminiscent of an original economy—and Mr. Bingle laid down his salad fork with a sigh. The children started violently and a scared, uneasy look went around the table.

"The Society's agents," said Mr. Bingle, closing his lips tightly to prevent their trembling. "Freddy, will you please go to the door?"

"Beg pardon, sir," said Watson, almost reproachfully despite his lordly air. Then, with stately tread, he passed into the little hallway and threw open the outer door.

"I don't want to go," Henrietta was crying, and even Frederic looked intently at his plate with eyes that were preparing to fill. The rest of them were ready to whimper. After all, a bountiful meal and a full stomach go a long way toward producing a reaction. They were not so keen to leave Mr. Bingle as they were before the meal began.

"Mrs. Flanders! Mr. Flanders!" announced the high-chinned Watson.

First of all, the new arrivals paused to stare in astonishment at the liveried footman, and then for an instant at the imperious Diggs, after which they turned their gaze upon the table.

"Great Scott!" gasped Flanders. "Is this a dream?"

"Not on your life," said Watson, completely forgetting himself in an ecstasy of delight.

There was a tremendous hub-bub, during which Diggs and Watson had a great deal of difficulty in keeping their places as old and well-trained servants. They were frequently on the verge of becoming prosperous green-grocers and joining in the jollification.

First, the gorgeous Miss Colgate kissed Mr. Bingle, almost smothering the poor gentleman in the wealth of furs which enveloped and adorned her. Then she kissed nine smart little cheeks in rapid succession, all the while crying "Merry Christmas" and "bless your heart," in chorus with every one else and her cheery-voiced husband.

"Just had to run down, Mr. Bingle," Flanders was shouting as he pumped the little man's arm violently up and down. "A year ago to-night it all happened, you remember. Celebrating the greatest of all anniversaries. How are you? Couldn't let THIS night go by without seeing you, sir—couldn't possibly. Can't stay but a minute, though. Due at the theatre at half-past seven. Amy goes on early in the first, you know—of course, you know, having ordered her on when I had her entering when the act was half over. How are you?"

"Fine! Fine!" gasped Mr. Bingle, almost speechless.

"And now," cried Amy Colgate, throwing open her fur coat, revealing a dazzling gown of black and silver, "now for the fun! Mr. Footman, will you admit the messengers from Humpty Dumpty land?"

In came four sprightly clowns, chalked and patched, clad in spots and spangles, dancing like mad and grinning from ear to ear. Whirling around the table, dodging the stove, vaulting the empty chairs, they stopped at last to deposit in a heap upon the floor a whopping pile of parcels and bundles, the topmost being a huge box of American Beauty roses. Almost before the wide-eyed, gaping youngsters could realise what had happened, the motley quartette vanished into the outer hall, the door banged to behind them and Mr. Flanders was shouting:

"How's that for high? Eh? That's the way we do things up at Forty-second Street. What have you got to say now, Mr. Bingle, on this Merry Christmas Eve?"

Mr. Bingle, quite as excited as any of the shouting children, sat down very suddenly in his chair at the head of the table.

"Sit down, Dick, and you, Amy, and—and have something to eat. I—I—" He stopped short, realising that he did not know what he was saying, but vaguely hospitable in spite of himself. Then his arm went up to cover his eyes.

"We haven't time," began Flanders, but caught a warning look from his pretty wife.

"We will have dessert and coffee with you, Mr. Bingle," she said, coming over to lay her hand upon his arm.

"Tha—that's fine," gulped Mr. Bingle with a mighty and partially successful effort to regain control of his flitting senses. And it was some time after that before he could trust himself to join in the merry, excited chatter. He kept on repeating "God bless my soul," in response to nearly every remark that was directed to him.

"You are not to open a single package until after we are gone," commanded Amy Colgate later on, confronting the eager, covetous children as she arose from the trunk which served as a chair for both herself and Mr. Bingle in Diggs's hasty readjustment of the seats at table. "The roses are for you, dear Mr. Bingle, with my love—my real love. I know that you will take them to Mrs. Bingle to-morrow, but they are for you to-night. Give her my love and wish her a Merry, Merry Christmas from Dick and me. Please God she may soon come back to you and be as she used to be." She peered intently, questioningly into his glistening eyes, and then put her arm suddenly around his neck and cried softly in his ear: "Oh, you dear, dear old goose!"

"Where is Melissa?" whispered Flanders to Diggs as that functionary was helping him into his greatcoat.

"Almost on your very 'eels, sir," said Diggs, as nervous as any one else.

"I say, Melissa," said Flanders, turning upon the beaming hand-maiden, who stood in the kitchen door with Watson's wife, "let me have a look at your kitchen." He fairly pushed his way into the kitchen, dragging her after him. "Hush! Don't interrupt me, my girl. He may suspect something and come hustling out here after us. Now, Melissa, I trust you as I would trust the Government of the United States. You are as honest as the sun, so I'm taking no chances in handing you this little package to be delivered to Mr. Bingle when he sits down to his lonely breakfast on Christmas morning. The kids will be all gone and he'll—well, he'll need something to brace him up a bit. Now, pay attention: this is a copy of the first edition of 'The Christmas Carol,' and stuck between the leaves is something that would cause this flat to be robbed to-night if the news got down to the Bowery. Are you listening?"

"I—I am, sir," gasped Melissa, gripping the small package tightly and shooting a look of apprehension at the kitchen window as if expecting to see a thief pop into the fifth story window.

"Well, there is a thousand dollar bill concealed in that book. Don't drop it! It won't bite you. Put it under your pillow to-night, and be sure he gets it for breakfast. The little note will explain everything."

"Goodness, Mr. Flanders, it's a dreadful thing to have in bed with a person. I won't sleep a wink."

"So much the better," said Flanders cheerfully. "Now, you'll not forget to have it at his place in the morning, will you?"

"If I live through the night, sir, it will be served with his coffee. I shan't even tell Mr. Diggs." She did not mean this as a reflection upon the integrity of her suitor, but, fearing that it might be taken as such, she made haste to add: "So if I'm found murdered in my bed, you needn't accuse him of doing it."

In the meantime, Amy Colgate had kissed all of the children again and was standing guard over the heap of presents, talking so gaily and so incessantly that, despite Mr. Bingle's glances in the direction of the kitchen, he was unable to satisfy his curiosity.

"You really are quite cosy here, Mr. Bingle," she was saying. "Have you anything new to show me?"

He pondered. "I think there's a new hole in the carpet over there, Mrs. Flanders. And I've taken a new lease on life. Dr. Fiddler dropped in at the bank yesterday to tell me that Mrs. Bingle may be able to come home before long, so you see I shall have to get busy fixing the place up a bit. She likes to have everything neat and tidy, you know."

"Is she still with her mother?"

"Certainly. Fiddler says she may have to go to the hospital for a while before coming here, but it's nothing to be worried about. A trifling operation, he says. He's like all doctors. You never can get 'em to commit themselves. I shall go up to see her to-morrow. I've got a little present for her, you know. I've sort of been expecting something from her to-night—a pair of slippers or a half dozen handkerchiefs or something like that—but perhaps they will come in the morning. She never forgets me. Of course, being sick and discouraged may have kept her from—and then again, on the other hand, she may have crochetted me a dressing gown or a fancy waistcoat and prefers to give it to me when I go out to see her to-morrow, not wanting to trust it to the Express Company, don't you know. Well, Dick, how do you like our kitchen?"

"Bully! Come along, Amy. We mustn't be late. See you soon, Mr. Bingle. You must bring Mrs. Bingle up to see the piece as soon as she's able. By George, we ARE doing business, though. Sixteen thousand dollars last week. Turning 'em away every night. Seventeen hundred dollars last night and—"

"Hush, Dick! Mr. Bingle knows you are an author. You don't have to act the part, you know."

"Right you are. It's getting to be a habit. I can't help contrasting this Christmas Eve with the one a year ago. I didn't have ten dollars to my name when I went out to hear you read 'The Christmas Carol,' Mr. Bingle."

"And now I haven't ten dollars to my name," said Mr. Bingle cheerily. "Luck is like the sun, Dick. It doesn't stay up all the time. Sometimes I look back upon the past ten years and wonder if they don't belong to the fellow who wrote the 'Arabian Nights' and not to me. They were not real, not a bit of it. And yet I can't remember ever having found a queer old jar at the seashore, nor having released a good geni from its smoky insides. So I suppose I really must have lived them."

"Don't let yourself get lonely, Mr. Bingle," said Flanders, gripping the other's hand. "Don't allow yourself to mope over the loss of these—ahem! They will all have nice, happy homes and grow up to be splendid—"

"Come on, Dick," called his wife from the little hall, where she was surrounded by a suddenly repressed group of children. She had been whispering something to them, and they were ashamed.

The door-bell gave forth its stuttering tinkle once more, and again the impassive Watson stalked to the entry. The next instant a white-furred figure bounded through the door, rushed across the room and precipitated itself forcibly into the arms of Mr. Bingle, who barely had time to prepare himself for the onslaught.

It was Kathleen. Behind her stalked the elegant Mr. and Mrs. Sydney Force.

There had been a time when Mrs. Force scarcely deigned to notice Miss Amy Fairweather. But there is a great difference between a poor governess and a popular goddess. The bright and shining star of Broadway, with a suite of rooms at the Plaza, a fascinating and much-courted husband, and a firm grasp on the shifting attention of the idle rich, was a person to be recognised even by the charitably inclined. And so Mrs. Force neglected to employ her lorgnon in scrutinising Miss Colgate, and made the most of an opportunity to release a long-suppressed effusiveness.

Later on, in a moment of quiet obtained by a somewhat imperative command to the noisy children, she announced to Mr. Bingle that she must be running along to a dinner and the opera, and that she hoped he would have everything ready when the agents for the Society called at half-past eight, so that there would be no delay in getting the youngsters off in a specially chartered Fifth Avenue stage. Then she turned sweetly to Miss Amy Colgate and said:

"May I take you up town in my car, Mrs. Flanders?"

Mrs. Flanders replied just as sweetly. "No, thank you, Mrs. Force. Our own limousine is waiting."

"We've come to hear the 'Christmas Carol,' Bingle," said Mr. Force after his wife and Mr. and Mrs. Flanders had gone. "Kathleen and I expect to come to see you on every Christmas Eve, if you'll have us. You've got us on your hands, old man, and you can't shake us off."

"God bless my soul," said Mr. Bingle, visibly moved. "I remember that you DID use it as an argument when you took Kathleen away from me. Still, I bear it no grudge."

"I love the 'Christmas Carol,' Daddy," cried Kathleen, snuggling close to him.

"Sh! You must not call me Daddy now, dear."

"I shall! You'll always be my daddy."

"And how about—" he pointed to Mr. Force.

"Oh," she said easily, "I call him father."

Then came the distribution of presents. A footman brought up numerous gifts from the rich Kathleen to her one time foster brothers and sisters. They had nothing to give to her in return, and Mr. Bingle afterwards said that it was greatly to their credit that they were able to look at him with an accusation in their eyes, for, said he, it went to prove that they were mortified over not being in a position to observe the old rule about giving and receiving. As a matter of fact, several of them tried to transfer to Kathleen the simple, inexpensive presents he had just given to them out of his own humble pile, all of which, he argued, went far toward establishing his point, notwithstanding the fact that they manifestly despised the very things they were so ready to give away. He overheard Frederick whispering to Kathleen that he hoped he was going to a place where he could have enough money to buy her the right kind of a present for her next Christmas, and that it was rotten luck to be as poor as all this. Mr. Bingle strained his ears to catch Kathleen's reply, and it was such that his face brightened; he afterwards sidled up to her and stroked her hair with loving, gentle fingers.

There was one rather large, cumbersome pasteboard box in the corner, which Diggs passed up to him the last of all.

"Don't open it till to-morrow, Mr. Bingle," said Melissa in a panic, whereupon Diggs jerked it away from him with more haste than good manners. It was marked quite plainly: "To Mr. Bingle from Melissa," and bright and early the next morning it turned out to be a fur lined overcoat.

Once more Melissa was dragged into the kitchen, this time by the furtive, uneasy Mr. Force. While they were out of the room a messenger boy came to the front door with a small package for Mr. Bingle.

"Ah, at last, something from Mary. I was sure she wouldn't forget me on Christmas Eve. She never has and I'm sure—Hello! This isn't her writing. 'Monsieur Thomas Singleton Bingle.' Now what can—"

"Open it, Daddy," cried Kathleen.

"Stand back! Maybe it's an infernal machine. These anarchists are blowing up all the rich men in town nowadays. This may be the end of me. Ah!" He had cut the string with a carving knife and now exposed to view a box of cigars. There was a card attached. With some difficulty he made out: "From your life-long friend, with best wishes for a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year." It was signed by "Napoleon."

Mr. Force had closed the door behind him. He spoke in a hoarse whisper, after a curt nod of the head to Mrs. Watson, who was vainly trying to wash the dishes and at the same time see all that was going on in the outer room.

"See here, young woman, I want you to give these two envelopes to Mr. Bingle when he comes in to breakfast in the morning." He produced two long blue envelopes and thrust them into her hand. "Not a word to him to-night, d'you hear? Put them under your pillow and sleep on 'em—with one eye open if possible."

"Good gracious," she said, with her broadest grin, "I shan't sleep for a week. They look terribly important."

"I'll tell you what they contain," said Mr. Force, after a moment. "You ought to know what you are guarding, my girl. This one contains Kathleen's present. Do you remember that pretty little cottage and farm just above my place in the country? The cottage with the ivy and the maples and the old stone wall? Well, this is a deed to that property. It is my daughter's present to her 'daddy,' the gentleman who made her the lady she is and who has just made a new man of Sydney Force. This—"

"Gee!" exclaimed Melissa, pop-eyed and trembling with joy. "What next? Now, I've got to sleep on a house and lot, besides—" She caught herself up in time.

"This envelope contains my present to him. It is an appointment as manager and superintendent of my estates in Westchester County and in Connecticut—for life, Melissa. You won't fail to give them to him for breakfast, will you?"

"God bless my soul!" gasped Melissa, unconsciously falling into a life-long habit of the man who loved everybody.

The agents came at eight o'clock, a gloomy man in uniform and two kind-looking, sweet-faced women in brown.

Mr. Bingle's voice broke occasionally as he read "The Christmas Carol" to a silent, attentive audience made up of Kathleen and Sydney Force, Melissa, Diggs and the two Watsons. Fortunately, he knew the story so well that he was not called upon to perform the impossible. It was seldom that he could see the print on account of the mist that lay in his tired, forlorn grey eyes.

Far below in the street outside, a half-frozen clarinetist was sending up a mournful carol from the mouth of his reed. Somewhere in the distance a high-voiced child was singing. And the wind played a dirge as it marched past the windows of the candle-lighted flat.

At last he came to the end. He laid the book upon the table, fumbled for his spectacle case, and contrived to smile as he held out a hand to Kathleen.

"You will come every Christmas Eve, won't you, Deary?" he said.

"Yes, Daddy," murmured Kathleen, between the sobs that Tiny Tim had drawn from her soft little heart. "Every Christmas Eve, Daddy?"

"Then it won't be so bad as it seems now," he said gently. Not a word said he of the nine children who had gone away.

Mr. Force had glanced surreptitiously at his watch at least a dozen times during the reading of the story. An anxious frown settled on his brow and an observer might have remarked the strange, listening attitude that he affected at times, such as the alert cocking of his head and an intense squinting of the eyes.

"Now, if my dear Mary could only pop in on us and—" but Mr. Bingle choked up suddenly and turned his attention to the stirring of the coals in the stove.

The door-bell pealed again, this time with surprising authority and decision. Mr. Bingle started as if shot. As he faced the little hall, his eyes were wide with an incredulous stare of wonder.

"Good God in heaven," he murmured, "can it be possible that—but no! It cannot be Mary. That would be too wonderful. Watson—Melissa, will you please see who's—who's there?"

As rigid as a post he stood over the stove, holding the poker in his hand, his eyes fastened upon the door as Watson sprang to open it. The cheerful voice of old Dr. Fiddler—the GREAT Dr. Fiddler—came roaring into the room ahead of its owner.

"By the Lord Harry, it's a cold night—Hello! What's this? Liveried servants again? Well, upon my soul, I—Ah, there you are, Bingle! How are you, Force?"

The next instant he was wringing Mr. Bingle's hand and booming Christmas greetings to every one in hearing—and out of it, for that matter, such a voice he had!

"Mary? What—how is she, Doctor?" cried Mr. Bingle, peering beyond the bulky form of the doctor as if expecting to see his wife in the little hallway.

"Fine as a fiddle," said Dr. Fiddler, using a pet and somewhat personal phrase.

"No—no bad news?" stammered Mr. Bingle. "You're not trying to break anything gently to me, are you?"

"Gently?" roared the doctor. "Does a rhinoceros break things gently?" He threw off his great ulster and began jerking at his gloves. "Just thought I'd run down to see you, Bingle. Christmas Eve comes but once a year. Hope I'm not too late for the Carol. I missed hearing it last year, and—"

"If you'll swear to me that Mary is all right, I'll—I'll read it over again," cried Mr. Bingle.

"I swear it on my word as a gentleman," said Fiddler, "but for heaven's sake don't read it over again. I'll take it for granted. Besides I always cry when we get to the Tiny Tim part, so—I say Force, don't you cry?"

"I did to-night," said Sydney Force, his face beaming.

"And you, Diggs?"

"Like a blooming baby, sir," said Diggs, and Watson blew his nose violently.

"Doctor, I thought for a moment that it was Mary at the door," said Mr. Bingle slowly. He was still trembling.

"Oh, she won't be here for a couple of weeks, Bingle—perhaps three. But she's coming, old man—coming with banners flying and bells on her toes. 'Gad, you won't know her when you see her to-morrow." He sent a quick, frowning glance around the room. "They're gone, eh? All of 'em? Good! I must tell you in advance, Bingle, that Mrs. Bingle will have to bring a nurse with her—for a while, at least. So, you see, we'll need all the room—"

"A nurse? Oh, my Lord!" gasped Mr. Bingle, dropping into a chair as his knees gave way beneath him. "Is—is it as bad as that?"

"Cheer up!" cried the doctor, laying a hand upon his shoulder, and suddenly giving him a violent shake. "Nothing to be alarmed over, I give you my word. She's as fine as a fiddle, I tell you. And now, give me a full glass of that amazing egg-nogg you make, Bingle. I'm frozen to the bone."

"Egg-nogg?" murmured Mr. Bingle, helplessly. "Why, God bless my soul, I—I never thought of it. Melissa, have we any whiskey in the house? No, of course not—and we have no cream, I fear, so—"

"Beg pardon, sir," interrupted Diggs, "we 'ave all of the hingredients. Watson 'appened to think of the cold trip 'ome, sir."

"Sit down, then," cried Mr. Bingle. "I'll mix the grog for you, Doctor, in two shakes of a lamb's tail."

He flew into the kitchen. Instantly Mr. Force had Dr. Fiddler by the arm. The others crowded close about the pair.

"How is it, Doctor? All right?"

"Wonderful!" whispered Dr. Fiddler. "She WOULD have her own way about it, and, by gad, I think she was inspired, now that it's turned out so beautifully. Half-past six this morning. She's a strong, perfect woman. I've got my car waiting downstairs and as soon as I've broken the news to him by degrees—don't want him to knock under completely, you know—I'm going to take him up to the hospital."

Melissa leaned forward, her eyes gleaming.

"Boy or girl, Doctor?" she whispered.

"A boy, God bless him," said Dr. Fiddler.

THE END