watched him through solemn, dripping eyes and hung on every word that
told of the regeneration of Scrooge and the sad happiness of Tiny Tim.
And finally Mr. Bingle, as hoarse as a crow and faint with emotion,
closed the book and lowered it gently to his knee.

"There!" he said. "There's a lesson for you. Don't you feel better for
it, young ladies and gentlemen?"

"I always cry," said Mary Sykes, with a glance of defiance at her
eldest brother, who made a fine show of glowering.

"Everybody cries over Tiny Tim," said Melissa. "As frequent as I've
heard Mr. Bingle read that story I can't help crying, knowing all the
time it's only a novel. It seems to me I cry a little worse every time
it's read. Don't you think I do, ma'am? Didn't you notice that I cried
a little more this time than I did last year?"

"It touches the heart-strings," said Mr. Bingle, blowing his nose so
fiercely that Georgie whimpered again, coming out of a doze. "I'll bet
my head, dear, that Uncle Joe would sniffle as much as any of us. I
wish--er--I do wish we'd asked him to come in. It would do him a world
of good to shed a few tears."

"He hasn't a tear in the whole hulk of him," said Mrs. Bingle,
sorrowfully.

"Poor old man," said Melissa, relenting a bit.

"I bet I know what he's doing," said James brightly.