Book account

Mrs. Bingle shifted the
occupants of her lap more and more often as the tale ran on, and with
little attempt to do so noiselessly; Mary's feet went to sleep, and
James fidgeted so violently that twice Mr. Bingle had to look at him.
But eventually he came to the acutely tearful place in the story, and
then he was at his best. Indeed, he quite thrilled his hearers, who
became all attention and blissfully lachrymose. Mrs. Bingle sobbed,
Melissa rubbed her eyes violently, Mr. Bingle choked up and could
scarcely read for the tightening in his throat, and the children
watched him through solemn, dripping eyes and hung on every word that
told of the regeneration of Scrooge and the sad happiness of Tiny Tim.
And finally Mr. Bingle, as hoarse as a crow and faint with emotion,
closed the book and lowered it gently to his knee.
"There!" he said. "There's a lesson for you. Don't you feel better for
it, young ladies and gentlemen?"
"I always cry," said Mary Sykes, with a glance of defiance at her
eldest brother, who made a fine show of glowering.


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