“For what we are about to receive—” began Joe, dismally, and then he suddenly got on to his feet again. “I’ll have that theer cheer at the table as how ’tis,” said he, and hobbled across the floor towards it. Then, as though struck by a sudden thought, he continued in an altered voice, “Pull up, missus, draw a bit nearer, lass. That’s it. Now we’s get to work.” He dragged the chair over to the table, and set a plate in front of it, and a knife and fork, and reached down a cup from the dresser. “We’s have a cup o’ tea jest now,” said he; “thou allus liked a cup o’ tea to thy dinner.” Returning to his place he sat down once more. “I’ll mak’ shift to think thou’s theer,” he said. “I’ll happen be able to eat a bit if I can fancy thou’s theer. I reckon thou’rt very like to be near me somewheer, owd lass; thou an’ me as was never parted for a day for nigh upon forty year, ’tisn’t very like as thou’d let me keep Christmas all by mysel’.” He was so busy talking to himself that he did not notice that the latch of the house door, which opened directly into the place, was lifted, as though by a hesitating hand, and that the door itself was softly pushed a very little way open. Taking up the carving-knife he cut a slice from the breast of the goose. “Wilt have a little bit?” he asked, looking towards the empty chair. “Yes, please,” said a little voice behind him; the door was opened and closed again, and little feet came pattering hastily across the floor. Joe dropped the knife and fork and looked round; a small figure stood at his elbow, a dimpled face surmounted by a very mop of yellow curls, was eagerly lifted to meet his gaze. “Hullo!” cried Joe. “Hullo!” echoed the little creature, and catching hold of his sleeve, the child added in a tone of delighted anticipation, “Please, I could like a bit.” “Why, whose little lass are you?” inquired the old man. “And what brings ye out on Christmas Day? Why, thou’rt starved wi’ cowd, an’ never a hat a-top of all they curls, an’ not so much as a bit o’ shawl to hap thee round. What’s thy name, my wench?” “Jinny, please, Mr Makin,” announced she; “Jinny Frith. I am John Frith’s little lass—John o’ Joe’s, ye know.” “I know,” said he; “and what brings ye out in the cowd?” Here the little face became overcast, and the little lip drooped. “Mother put me in the wash-house,” said she. “Hoo wouldn’t let me sit at table; hoo put me in the wash-house, and I saw your fire shinin’ through the window, and I thought I’d come and ax ye to let me come in and warm mysel’.” “Well, an’ so I will,” returned Joe, heartily. “Put ye in the wash-house, did hoo? Well, and that’s a tale. Hoo’s thy stepmother, isn’t hoo? Ah, I mind it now, I mind hearin’ thy feyther ’ad getten a new wife.” Jinny nodded, “An’ a lot o’ new childer!” she announced. “There’s Tommy, an’ Teddy, an’ Maggie, an’ Pollie, mother brought ’em all wi’ her.” “Ah, she was a widow, was she?” queried Joe, interested.