little dinner, to which
he came home; having told him her story of pussy's beating, at which he
was justly and dignifiedly indignant, saying it was all of a piece with
that abusive _Examiner_; having received the sausages, and turkey, and
mince pies, which her husband had ordered; and cleaned up the room, and
prepared everything for tea, and coaxed and duly bemoaned her cat (who
had pretty nearly forgotten his beating, but very much enjoyed the
petting), having done all these and many other things, Mrs. Jenkins sate
down to get up the real lace cap. Every thread was pulled out
separately, and carefully stretched: when, what was that? Outside, in
the street, a chorus of piping children's voices sang the old carol she
had heard a hundred times in the days of her youth:--

"As Joseph was a walking he heard an angel sing,
'This night shall be born our heavenly King.
He neither shall be born in housen nor in hall,
Nor in the place of Paradise, but in an ox's stall.
He neither shall be clothed in purple nor in pall,
But all in fair linen, as were babies all:
He neither shall be rocked in silver nor in gold,
But in a wooden cradle that rocks on the mould,'" &c.

She got up and went to the window. There, below, stood the group of grey
black little figures, relieved against the snow, which now enveloped
everything. "For old sake's sake," as she phrased it, she counted out a
halfpenny apiece for the singers, out of the copper bag, and threw them
down below.

The room had become chilly while she had been counting out and throwing
down her money, so she stirred her already glowing fire, and sat down
right before it--but not to stretch her lace; like Mary Hodgson, she
began to think over long-past days, on softening remembrances of the
dead and gone, on words long forgotten, on holy stories heard at her
mother's knee.

"I cannot think what's come over me to-night," said she, half aloud,
recovering herself by the sound of her own voice from her train of
thought--"My head goes wandering on them old times. I'm sure more texts
have come into my head with thinking on my mother within this last half
hour, than I've thought on for years and years. I hope I'm not going to
die. Folks say, thinking too much on the dead betokens we're going to
join 'em; I should be loth to go just yet--such a fine turkey as we've
got for dinner to-morrow, too!"

Knock, knock, knock, at the door, as fast as knuckles could go. And
then,