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, the youngest four, and it so happened that the beginning and the end of the string were boys, the three in between being Mary, Maud, and Kate. Mrs. Bingle helped them off with their coats and caps and mufflers, then hugged them and lugged them up to the fire, while Melissa removed her skunk tippet, her poney coat and a hat that would have created envy in the soul of a less charitable creature than the mistress of the house. "And now," said Mr. Bingle, confronting the group, "who made you?" "God, Mr. Bingle," said the five Sykeses, very much after the habit of a dog that is ordered to "speak." "And who was it that said, 'Suffer little children to come unto me?'" "Jesus, Mr. Bingle," said the five Sykeses, eyeing the pile on the table. "And where do you expect to go when you die?" demanded Mr. Bingle, with great severity. "Heaven!" shouted the perfectly healthy Sykeses. "How is your mother, Mary?" asked Mrs. Bingle, always a rational woman. Mary bobbed. "She's working, ma'am," said she, and that was all she knew about her mother's state of health. "Are you cold?" inquired Mr. Bingle, herding them a little closer to the grate. "Yes," said two of the Sykeses. "Sir," admonished Melissa. "Sir!" said all of the Sykeses. "Now, draw up the chairs," said Mr. Bingle, clearing his throat. "Mary, you'd better take Kate and Georgie on your lap, and suppose you hold Maud, Melissa. It will be more cosy." This was his way of overcoming the shortage in chairs.