Mrs. Bingle took advantage of this unusual delay--or respite--and explained to Mrs. Force that she would never go back to Madame Marie for another gown. All one had to do was to look at the dress she was wearing to-night for the first time. "It has just come and it cost--well, you know what a gown like that would cost at Marie's! And just look at it!" Mrs. Force did look at it--commiseratingly--and said she would be pleased to take Mrs. Bingle in to see her dressmaker, and so on and so forth. Mrs. Bingle expressed some doubt as to any modiste's ability to make her look like Mrs. Force and Mrs. Force pooh-poohed graciously. Mr. Force bit off the end of a cigar and glumly watched the revivified servants arranging the chairs. Occasionally he sent a puzzled glance at little Kathleen. Mr. Bingle rubbed his spectacles, while Mr. Flanders confined his attention solely to the slim, graceful head and neck of the new governess. He wore the look of one who has much to do to contain himself in patience. As for Miss Fairweather, a warm glow had settled upon her fair cheek and her eyes were bright. "I always cry when any one reads aloud about Tiny Tim," she said to Mr. Force, who, for obvious reasons, failed to hear her above the chattering of the children. But Flanders heard. "Tiny Tim always makes me cry too," he said, very distinctly. He was rewarded by a slightly increased colour in the young lady's cheek. "I cry my eyes out over Tiny Tim," Miss Quinlan was saying to Miss Stokes, and at the same instant Miss Brown was telling Miss Wright that Tiny Tim was always good for a bucketful, so far as she was concerned. Imogene was sound asleep, and there were faint sobs in her breathing. "Before we begin, Swanson," said Mr. Bingle, addressing the furnace-man, "you might put a couple of fresh Yule logs on the fire. Pick out good, big ones while you're about it." "Will dose har fance-post do, Mast' Bingle?" whispered Swanson hoarsely, as he held up a chunk of firewood for approval. The fire was crackling merrily by the time the servants were seated and Diggs had turned out the ceiling and wall lights from the switch, leaving the big room in semi-darkness. The blazing logs sent a bright, nickering glow into the faces of Mr. Bingle's auditors. He bowed gravely and took up the cherished well-worn book. "My dear friends, we have once more reached a milestone in the march of Christendom. As you know, children, it comes but once a year, like New Year's and Fourth of July." "Hear! Hear!" volunteered three or four of the men-servants diffidently. "We are all servants of the Lord whose anniversary we celebrate. We gather here about a warm fireside, with the historic yule log blazing--er--figuratively speaking, of course. These logs, naturally, are not historic. They--er--ahem! Ahem!" He floundered. "Still, we gather about them, just the same, warm and snug and full of good cheer. Outside, the night is cold and blustery. The wind howls around the--"