"I wonder, my dear, if Uncle Joe couldn't be persuaded to come in and
listen to the reading," he ventured, a wistful gleam in his eyes.
"He's been feeling better the last few days. It might cheer him--"

"Cheer your granny," said Mrs. Bingle scornfully. "It's no use. I
asked him just before dinner and he said he didn't believe in
happiness, or something to that effect."

"He is the limit," said Melissa flatly. "The worst grouch I've ever
seen, Mr. Bingle, even if he is your own flesh and blood uncle. He's
almost as bad as Old Scrooge."

"He is a sick man," explained Mr. Bingle, lowering his voice; "and he
hasn't known very much happiness in his lifetime, so I suppose we
ought to overlook--er, ahem! Let me see, where was I?" He favoured
young Mary Sykes with a genial grin. "Where was I, Mary?"

Mary saw her chance. Without a trace of shame or compunction, she said
page seventy-eight, and then the three grown people coughed in great
embarrassment.

"You sha'n't come next Christmas," whispered Melissa very fiercely
into Mary's ear, so ominously, in fact, that Mary's lip began to
tremble.

"Page one," she amended, in a very small voice. James moved uneasily
in his chair, and Mary avoided his gaze.

"I believe I'll step in and ask Uncle Joe if he won't change his