The Christmas dinner.


Mr. and Mrs. Bloomfield arrived; the former a benevolent, grey-haired
man, with a large nose and small mouth, yet with nothing of the
foolish look which often accompanies such a malconformation; and the
latter a nice-looking little body, middle-aged, rather more; with
half-grey curls, and a cap with black ribbons. Indeed, they were both
in mourning. Mr. Bloomfield bore himself with a kind of unworldly
grace, and Mrs. Bloomfield with a kind of sweet primness. The
schoolmaster was inclined to be talkative; nor was his wife behind
him; and that was just what we wanted.

"I am sorry to see you in mourning," said the colonel to Mr.
Bloomfield, during dessert. "I trust it is for no near relative."

"No relative at all, sir. But a boy of mine, to whom, through God's
grace, I did a good turn once, and whom, as a consequence, I loved
ever after."

"Tell Colonel Cathcart the story, James," said his wife. "It can do no
harm to anybody now; and you needn't mention names, you know. You
would like to hear it, wouldn't you, sir?"

"Very much indeed," answered the colonel.

"Well, sir," began the schoolmaster, "there's not much in it to you, I
fear; though there was a good deal to him and me. I was usher in a
school at Peckham once. I was but a lad, but I tried to do my duty;
and the first part of my duty seemed to me, to take care of the