When they had reached the house, Christine asked him whether he wouldn't come in for a little while; and he replied that he guessed he would, for the purpose of putting away his paraphernalia, which he had left cluttering up the parlor. Inside they found old Redwood, who explained that he had departed from his custom that morning, and chosen quite a different quarter of the park for his outing. Elias stowed his things under the piano. As he was doing so, a bell rang below stairs. “Dinner,” announced the old man. “Come, Mr. Bacharach.” Elias began to make his excuses. “Oh, none o' that!” the old man cried, grasping Elias's arm. “Come down and take pot-luck; and may good digestion wait on appetite.” Pretty soon Elias found himself installed at Redwood's table, with Christine beaming upon him from one end, and the old man carving a turkey at the other. “Well, I declare, Chris, this is quite jolly, ain't it? To have company to dinner! We two--she and I, Mr. Bacharach--we generally dine alone; and as we've told each other about all either of us knows, time and time again, we don't find it particularly lively; do we, Chris? Now, Mr. Bacharach, I know that you Israelites--excuse me--you foreigners--don't drink ice-water with your meals; but as I haven't got any wine to offer you, I'll send out for some beer. Mary!” The maid appeared; and old Redwood instructed her to purchase a quart of beer at the corner liquor store. “You'll have to go in by the side-door, Mary, because it's Sunday. And if any policeman should ask what you've got in the pitcher, tell him it's milk. Don't be afraid. If he takes you up, I'll go bail for you. Ha-ha-ha!” “_Father!_” cried Christine, with a glance at once beseeching and reproachful. “Beer,” the old man continued, moderating his hilarity, and adopting a commentative tone, “beer is a great drink, mild, refreshing, wholesome. And it's done a sight of good for temperance, too--more than all your total abstinence orators and blue-rib-bonites put together. I'm very fond of it, and always drink it with my lunch, down-town. There's a saloon just under my shop. But Chris there, she can't abide it, on account of the bitter. She likes wine--and wine--not being a capitalist--I call an extravagance.” “Yes,” said Christine, “I think wine is perfectly delicious; and so pretty to look at, with its deep red or yellow. Once a friend of father's sent us a whole box of wine--Rhine wine--and----” “And,” old Redwood interrupted, “and that innocent appearing young woman there, sir, she disposed of every blessed drop of it; she did, for a fact. What do you think of that?” “Oh, father,” protested Christine, blushing beautifully, “you ought not to say such a thing. Mr. Bacharach might believe you.” “Well, any how, I wish we had some of it left to offer you, Mr. Bacharach,” said Redwood. “But here comes the beer.”