thousandth time Mr. and Mrs. Bingle wondered how such a treasure as
Melissa had managed to keep out of heaven all these years.

Mr. Bingle opened the front door with a great deal of ceremony the
instant the rickety elevator came to a stop at the seventh floor, and
gave greeting to the five Sykeses on the dark, narrow landing. He
mentioned each by name and very gravely shook their red-mittened paws
as they sidled past him with eager, bulging eyes that saw only the
Christmas trappings in the room beyond.

"Merry Christmas," said the five, not quite in one voice but with
well-rehearsed vehemence, albeit two tiny ones, in rapt contemplation
of things beyond, quite neglected their duty until severely nudged by
Melissa, whereupon they said it in a shrill treble at least six times
without stopping.

"I am very pleased to see you all," said Mr. Bingle, beaming. "Won't
you take off your things and stay awhile?"

It was what he always said to them, and they always said, "Yes, thank
you," following out instructions received on the way down town, and
then, in some desperation, added, "Mr. Bingle," after a sententious
whisper from their aunt.

They were a rosy, clean-scrubbed lot, these little Sykeses. Their
mother may not have fared overly well herself, but she had contrived
to put flesh and fat on the bones of her progeny, and you would go a
long way before you would find a plumper, merrier group of children
than those who came to the Bingle flat on Christmas Eve in their very
best garments and with their very best appetites. The eldest was ten,