Mr. Force had closed the door behind him. He spoke in a hoarse whisper, after a curt nod of the head to Mrs. Watson, who was vainly trying to wash the dishes and at the same time see all that was going on in the outer room. "See here, young woman, I want you to give these two envelopes to Mr. Bingle when he comes in to breakfast in the morning." He produced two long blue envelopes and thrust them into her hand. "Not a word to him to-night, d'you hear? Put them under your pillow and sleep on 'em--with one eye open if possible." "Good gracious," she said, with her broadest grin, "I shan't sleep for a week. They look terribly important." "I'll tell you what they contain," said Mr. Force, after a moment. "You ought to know what you are guarding, my girl. This one contains Kathleen's present. Do you remember that pretty little cottage and farm just above my place in the country? The cottage with the ivy and the maples and the old stone wall? Well, this is a deed to that property. It is my daughter's present to her 'daddy,' the gentleman who made her the lady she is and who has just made a new man of Sydney Force. This--" "Gee!" exclaimed Melissa, pop-eyed and trembling with joy. "What next? Now, I've got to sleep on a house and lot, besides--" She caught herself up in time. "This envelope contains my present to him. It is an appointment as manager and superintendent of my estates in Westchester County and in Connecticut--for life, Melissa. You won't fail to give them to him for breakfast, will you?" "God bless my soul!" gasped Melissa, unconsciously falling into a life-long habit of the man who loved everybody. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The agents came at eight o'clock, a gloomy man in uniform and two kind-looking, sweet-faced women in brown. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Mr. Bingle's voice broke occasionally as he read "The Christmas Carol" to a silent, attentive audience made up of Kathleen and Sydney Force, Melissa, Diggs and the two Watsons. Fortunately, he knew the story so well that he was not called upon to perform the impossible. It was seldom that he could see the print on account of the mist that lay in his tired, forlorn grey eyes. Far below in the street outside, a half-frozen clarinetist was sending up a mournful carol from the mouth of his reed. Somewhere in the distance a high-voiced child was singing. And the wind played a dirge as it marched past the windows of the candle-lighted flat. At last he came to the end. He laid the book upon the table, fumbled for his spectacle case, and contrived to smile as he held out a hand to Kathleen. "You will come every Christmas Eve, won't you, Deary?" he said. "Yes, Daddy," murmured Kathleen, between the sobs that Tiny Tim had drawn from her soft little heart. "Every Christmas Eve, Daddy?" "Then it won't be so bad as it seems now," he said gently. Not a word said he of the nine children who had gone away.