"How's that for high? Eh? That's the way we do things up at Forty-second Street. What have you got to say now, Mr. Bingle, on this Merry Christmas Eve?" Mr. Bingle, quite as excited as any of the shouting children, sat down very suddenly in his chair at the head of the table. "Sit down, Dick, and you, Amy, and--and have something to eat. I--I--" He stopped short, realising that he did not know what he was saying, but vaguely hospitable in spite of himself. Then his arm went up to cover his eyes. "We haven't time," began Flanders, but caught a warning look from his pretty wife. "We will have dessert and coffee with you, Mr. Bingle," she said, coming over to lay her hand upon his arm. "Tha--that's fine," gulped Mr. Bingle with a mighty and partially successful effort to regain control of his flitting senses. And it was some time after that before he could trust himself to join in the merry, excited chatter. He kept on repeating "God bless my soul," in response to nearly every remark that was directed to him. "You are not to open a single package until after we are gone," commanded Amy Colgate later on, confronting the eager, covetous children as she arose from the trunk which served as a chair for both herself and Mr. Bingle in Diggs's hasty readjustment of the seats at table. "The roses are for you, dear Mr. Bingle, with my love--my real love. I know that you will take them to Mrs. Bingle to-morrow, but they are for you to-night. Give her my love and wish her a Merry, Merry Christmas from Dick and me. Please God she may soon come back to you and be as she used to be." She peered intently, questioningly into his glistening eyes, and then put her arm suddenly around his neck and cried softly in his ear: "Oh, you dear, dear old goose!" "Where is Melissa?" whispered Flanders to Diggs as that functionary was helping him into his greatcoat. "Almost on your very 'eels, sir," said Diggs, as nervous as any one else. "I say, Melissa," said Flanders, turning upon the beaming hand-maiden, who stood in the kitchen door with Watson's wife, "let me have a look at your kitchen." He fairly pushed his way into the kitchen, dragging her after him. "Hush! Don't interrupt me, my girl. He may suspect something and come hustling out here after us. Now, Melissa, I trust you as I would trust the Government of the United States. You are as honest as the sun, so I'm taking no chances in handing you this little package to be delivered to Mr. Bingle when he sits down to his lonely breakfast on Christmas morning. The kids will be all gone and he'll--well, he'll need something to brace him up a bit. Now, pay attention: this is a copy of the first edition of 'The Christmas Carol,' and stuck between the leaves is something that would cause this flat to be robbed to-night if the news got down to the Bowery. Are you listening?"