"No more do I," said Mulrady; "but I reckon it's the right thing to
do about this time. Some folks think they can't be happy without
they're getting outside o' suthin', and my directors down at
'Frisco can't do any business without a dinner. Take some
champagne, to begin with."

He opened a bottle, and filled two tumblers. "It's past twelve
o'clock, old man, so here's a merry Christmas to you, and both of
us ez is here. And here's another to our families--ez isn't."

They both drank their wine stolidly. The rain beat against the
windows sharply, but without the hollow echoes of the house on the
hill. "I must write to the old woman and Mamie, and say that you
and me had a high old time on Christmas Eve."

"By ourselves," added the invalid.

Mr. Mulrady coughed. "Nat'rally--by ourselves. And her
provisions," he added, with a laugh. "We're really beholden to HER
for 'em. If she hadn't thought of having them--"

"For somebody else, you wouldn't have had them--would you?" said
Slinn, slowly, gazing at the fire.

"No," said Mulrady, dubiously. After a pause he began more
vivaciously, and as if to shake off some disagreeable thought that
was impressing him, "But I mustn't forget to give you YOUR
Christmas, old man, and I've got it right here with me." He took
the folded envelope from his pocket, and, holding it in his hand