Fortunately, he knew the story so
well that he was not called upon to perform the impossible. It was
seldom that he could see the print on account of the mist that lay in
his tired, forlorn grey eyes.
Far below in the street outside, a half-frozen clarinetist was sending
up a mournful carol from the mouth of his reed. Somewhere in the
distance a high-voiced child was singing. And the wind played a dirge
as it marched past the windows of the candle-lighted flat.
At last he came to the end. He laid the book upon the table, fumbled
for his spectacle case, and contrived to smile as he held out a hand
to Kathleen.
"You will come every Christmas Eve, won't you, Deary?" he said.
"Yes, Daddy," murmured Kathleen, between the sobs that Tiny Tim had
drawn from her soft little heart. "Every Christmas Eve, Daddy?"
"Then it won't be so bad as it seems now," he said gently. Not a word
said he of the nine children who had gone away.
Mr. Force had glanced surreptitiously at his watch at least a dozen
times during the reading of the story.
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