"I cry my eyes out over Tiny Tim," Miss Quinlan was saying to Miss
Stokes, and at the same instant Miss Brown was telling Miss Wright
that Tiny Tim was always good for a bucketful, so far as she was
concerned.

Imogene was sound asleep, and there were faint sobs in her breathing.

"Before we begin, Swanson," said Mr. Bingle, addressing the furnace-
man, "you might put a couple of fresh Yule logs on the fire. Pick out
good, big ones while you're about it."

"Will dose har fance-post do, Mast' Bingle?" whispered Swanson
hoarsely, as he held up a chunk of firewood for approval.

The fire was crackling merrily by the time the servants were seated
and Diggs had turned out the ceiling and wall lights from the switch,
leaving the big room in semi-darkness. The blazing logs sent a bright,
nickering glow into the faces of Mr. Bingle's auditors. He bowed
gravely and took up the cherished well-worn book.

"My dear friends, we have once more reached a milestone in the march
of Christendom. As you know, children, it comes but once a year, like
New Year's and Fourth of July."

"Hear! Hear!" volunteered three or four of the men-servants
diffidently.

"We are all servants of the Lord whose anniversary we celebrate. We
gather here about a warm fireside, with the historic yule log blazing--