ase.
But, the attempt was far from successful.

"I want some! Don't give him all!" screamed out the hungry child at
my side, stretching out his hands towards the poorly supplied dish,
from which my husband was about supplying our guest.

My face, which was red enough before, now became like scarlet. A
moment longer I remained at the table, and then rising up quickly
took the impatient child in my arms, and carried him screaming from
the room. I did not return to grace the dinner table with my
unattractive presence. Of what passed, particularly, between my
husband and his friend Mr. Jones, who had left his luxurious dinner
at the hotel to enjoy "a plain family dinner" with his old
acquaintance, I never ventured to make enquiry. They did not remain
very long at the table; nor very long in the house after finishing
their frugal meal.

I have heard since that Mr. Jones has expressed commiseration for my
husband, as the married partner of a real termigant. I don't much
wonder at his indifferent opinion; for, I rather think I must have
shown in my face something of the indignant fire that was in me.

Mr. Smith, who was too much in the habit of inviting people home to
take a "family dinner" with him on the spur of the moment, has never
committed that error since. His mortification was too severe to be
easily forgotten.

CHAPTER VIII.

WHO IS KRISS KRINGLE?

IT was the day before Christmas--always a day of restless, hopeful
excitement among the children; and my thoughts were busy, as is
usual at this season, with little plans for increasing the gladness
of my happy household. The name of the good genius who presides over
toys and sugar plums was often on my lips, but oftener on the lips
of the children.

"Who is Kriss Kringle, mamma?" asked a pair of rosy lips, close to
my ear, as I stood at the kitchen table, rolling out and cutting
cakes.

I turned at the question, and met the earnest gaze of a couple of
bright eyes, the roguish owner of which had climbed into a chair for
the purpose of taking note of my doings.

I kissed the sweet lips, but did not answer.

"Say, mamma? Who is Kriss Kringle?" persevered the little one.

"Why, don't you know?" said I, smiling.

"No, mamma. Who is he?"

"Why, he is--he is--Kriss Kringle."

"Oh, mamma! Say, won't you tell me?"

"Ask papa when he comes home," I returned, evasively.

I never like deceiving children in any thing. And yet, Christmas
after Christmas,