The occupant of the back room was a man, and the occupants of the front
room a woman and her children.

He was sitting at a rude deal table; before him were scattered some
dirty sheets of music, and around him the place was dreary and bare. By
the light of a tallow dip he was playing, in screeching tones, the
commonest of ditties and polkas by note. His coat was once of the
richest; but now it was old and threadbare. His hands were once white
and elegantly shaped; now they were dirty, and blue with cold. His face
once beamed with contentment; now it was worn with care and marked by
the hard lines of penury.

The other room was darker, and, if possible, more dreary. There were two
trundle-beds in a corner, and four bright beings, oblivious to the
discomfort, in the happy sleep of childhood. There was a mattress in
another corner, with a pile of bedquilts and a sheet.

The fire had burned down to a coal. It shone on the mantle with a sickly
glare; and this was the only light there was.

To the mantle-piece were pinned four little stockings, each waiting
open-mouthed for a gift from Santa Claus.

Below them crouched a woman, weeping bitterly.

The woman was Clara Hague; and she was weeping because the Christmas
dawn would find those little mouths unsatisfied.

Our "Air" is getting mournful,--too mournful for this hour of great joy.