I've sort of been expecting
something from her to-night--a pair of slippers or a half dozen
handkerchiefs or something like that--but perhaps they will come in
the morning. She never forgets me. Of course, being sick and
discouraged may have kept her from--and then again, on the other hand,
she may have crochetted me a dressing gown or a fancy waistcoat and
prefers to give it to me when I go out to see her to-morrow, not
wanting to trust it to the Express Company, don't you know. Well,
Dick, how do you like our kitchen?"
"Bully! Come along, Amy. We mustn't be late. See you soon, Mr. Bingle.
You must bring Mrs. Bingle up to see the piece as soon as she's able.
By George, we ARE doing business, though. Sixteen thousand dollars
last week. Turning 'em away every night. Seventeen hundred dollars
last night and--"
"Hush, Dick! Mr. Bingle knows you are an author. You don't have to act
the part, you know."
"Right you are. It's getting to be a habit. I can't help contrasting
this Christmas Eve with the one a year ago. I didn't have ten dollars
to my name when I went out to hear you read 'The Christmas Carol,' Mr.
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