dreams come true.

The Bingles were singularly nephewless, nieceless, cousinless. There
was no kindly-disposed relative to whom they could look for the loan
of a few children on Christmas Eve, nor would their own sensitiveness
permit them to approach neighbours or friends in the building with a
well-meant request that might have met with a chilly rebuff. One
really cannot go about borrowing children from people on the floor
below and the floor above, especially on Christmas Eve when children
are so much in demand, even in the most fortunate of families. It is
quite a different matter at any other time of the year. One can always
borrow a whole family of children when the mother happens to feel the
call of the matinee or the woman's club, and it is not an uncommon
thing to secure them for a whole day in mid-December. But on Christmas
Eve, never! And so Mr. and Mrs. Bingle, being without the natural
comforts of home, were obliged to go out into the world searching for
children who had an even greater grudge against circumstances. They
frequently found their guests of honour in places where dishonour had
left them, and they gave them a merry Christmas with no questions
asked.

The past two Christmas Eves had found them rather providentially
supplied with children about whom no questions had ever been asked:
the progeny of a Mr. and Mrs. Sykes. Mr. Sykes being dead, the care
and support of five lusty youngsters fell upon the devoted but far
from rugged shoulders of a mother who worked as a saleswoman in one of
the big Sixth Avenue shops, and who toiled far into the night before
Christmas in order that forgetful people might be able to remember
without fail on the morning thereafter. She was only too glad to lend
her family to Mr. and Mrs. Bingle. More than that, she was ineffably