mas story by Mr. Charles Dickens, entitled 'The Cricket on
the Hearth.'" For this occasion Mr. Kennedy had loaned him his own
copy, one of the earliest bound volumes, bearing on its fly-leaf an
inscription in the great master's own handwriting in which he thanked
the distinguished author of "Swallow Barn" for the many kindnesses he
had shown him during his visit to America, and begged his indulgence for
his third attempt to express between covers the sentiment and feeling of
the Christmas season.

Not that this was an unusual form of entertainment, nor one that excited
special comment. Almost every neighborhood had its morning (and often
its evening) "Readings," presided over by some one who read well and
without fatigue--some sweet old maid, perhaps, who knew how to grow old
gracefully. At these times a table would be rolled into the library by
the deferential servant of the house, on which he would place the dear
lady's spectacles and a book, its ivory marker showing where the last
reading had ended--it might be Prescott's "Ferdinand and Isabella," or
Irving's "Granada," or Thackeray's "Vanity Fair," or perhaps, Dickens's
"Martin Chuzzlewit."

At eleven o'clock the girls would begin to arrive, each one bringing her
needle-work of some kind--worsted, or embroidery, or knitting--something
she could manage without discomfort to herself or anybody about her, and
when the last young lady was in her seat, the same noiseless darky would
tiptoe in and take his place behind the old maid's chair. Then he would
slip a stool under her absurdly small slippers and tiptoe out again,
shutting the door behind him as quietly as if he found the dear lady
asleep--and so the reading would begin.

A reading by Richard, however, was always an event of unusual
importance, and an invitation to be present was never declined whether
received by letter or by word of mouth.

St. George had been looking forward eagerly to the night, and when the
shadows began to fall in his now almost bare bedroom, he sent for Todd
to help him dress.

"Have you got a shirt for me, Todd?"

"Got seben oh 'em. Dey wants a li'l' trimmin' roun' de aidges, but I
reckon we kin make 'em do--Aunt Jemima sont 'em home dis mawnin'. She's
been a-workin' on 'em, she says. Looks ter me like a goat had a moufful
outer dis yere sleeve, but I dassent tell er so. Lot o' dem butters
wanderin' roun' dat Marsh market lookin' fer sumpin' to eat; lemme gib
dem boots anudder tech.