mind," said Mr. Bingle. "I--I don't believe he has ever read the
Christmas Carol. And he is so lonely, so--er--so at odds with the
world that--"

"Don't bother him, Tom," said his wife. "Get on with the reading. The
children are impatient." She completed the sentence in a yawn.

Mr. Bingle began. He read very slowly and very impressively at first,
but gradually warmed up to the two-hour task. In a very few minutes he
was going along rapidly, almost monotonously, with scant regard for
effect save at the end of sentences, the ultimate word being
pronounced with distinct emphasis. Page after page was turned; the
droning sound of his voice went on and on, with its clock-like
inflections at the end of sentences; the revived crackle of coals lent
spirit to an otherwise dreary solo, and always it was Melissa who
poked the grate and at the same time rubbed her leg to renew the
circulation that had been checked by the limp weight of Katie Sykes;
the deep sighs of Mrs. Bingle and the loud yawns of the older children
relieved the monotony of sound from time to time; and the cold wind
whistled shrilly round the corners of the building, causing the
youngsters to wonder how Santa was enduring the frost during his
tedious wait at the top of the chimney pot. Mrs. Bingle shifted the
occupants of her lap more and more often as the tale ran on, and with
little attempt to do so noiselessly; Mary's feet went to sleep, and
James fidgeted so violently that twice Mr. Bingle had to look at him.
But eventually he came to the acutely tearful place in the story, and
then he was at his best. Indeed, he quite thrilled his hearers, who
became all attention and blissfully lachrymose. Mrs. Bingle sobbed,
Melissa rubbed her eyes violently, Mr. Bingle choked up and could
scarcely read for the tightening in his throat, and the children