ghing eye at Molly, and Mr. Tripple
looked boldly around the board as a man who had said a very bright thing
indeed, after which survey he broke out into a not very comfortable
laugh. All the rest laughed, too, then, and such good humor prevailed
that nothing seemed amiss, and Mr. Tripple's inexperience was kindly
overlooked.

But now the turkey was fast becoming skeletonized, and the good company
was fast becoming the reverse. The jollity was increasing and the
serious intentions of Mr. Tripple were impending and ready to fall into
open profession on the slightest encouragement. The Little Scout's
pinched and pale face--sweet and uncomplaining, even through hunger and
want--smiled gently and less sadly as it leaned in Molly's arms, and,
looking up, she said,--

"Poor father! How quiet you were last night when we were walking home.
I knew you were thinking about to-day and the poor dinner. How kind it
was of good Mr. Griffin. I'd like to thank him myself, father!"

"And so you shall, Little Scout," said David, gayly, bending over and
kissing her with boyish contempt of aged bones; "and so you shall, and I
make no doubt he'll be glad to see you, too, Deary."

The clock in a neighboring steeple, simultaneously with its ancient
kinsman on the shelf, and followed by incoming echoes of a score of
others, struck one; but the company little heeded that, and the
conviviality was far from diminishing when another summons rattled the
street door, and again all exclaimed "There's Tom!" and crowded to the
landing as before.

Polly this time tripped down and came back in a moment with only a
letter, saying,--

"A young man, father, with this letter for Mr. Griffin. It's addressed
to his store, but he said it was important, and, knowing you lived here,
he depended on you to deliver it at once."

"Has he gone?" said David, grasping it.

"Yes, father," replied Polly, "right off."

Here was a pitiable state of affairs indeed. David Dubbs, aroused from
the joyful celebration of his Christmas dinner and from the midst of
this cosey party and sent off across the river to his master's house
with a miserable letter and by a miserable young man (and if delivering
letters when every other well-intentioned man is eating his turkey isn't
miserable, why what is it?). Sent off on a graceless errand for nothing,
perhaps. But his kind employer, who had done so much for his comfort and
joy that very day, must not suffer by his neglect, and