r face to the wall. Now, Major, it's your turn."

Fitz began to protest that he ought to have another chance, and that
it had slipped out before he knew it, since he had never forgotten a
brother of that same bird, one that he had eaten at her own table; but
the little lady wouldn't hear another syllable, and waved him away
with great dignity, whereupon Fitz buried his fat face in his hands,
and said that life was really not worth the living, and that if
anybody would suggest a comfortable way of committing suicide he would
adopt it at once.

When my turn came, I, remembering the buttons on "Jeems," guessed a
livery for Chad, at which the dear lady laughed more merrily than
before, and Fitz remarked in a disgusted tone that the dense stupidity
of some men was one of the characteristics of the time.

"No; it's nothing to eat and it's nothing to wear. It's a most
charming young lady who at my earnest solicitation has consented to
dine with us, and to whom I want you two young gentlemen (Fitz is
forty if he's a day, and looks it) to be most devoted."

"Pretty?" asked Fitz, pulling up his collar--prinking in mock vanity.

"Yes, and better than pretty."

"Young?" persisted Fitz.

"Young, and most entertaining.

"Now listen both of you and I will tell you all about it. She lives up
in one of your most desolate streets, Lafayette Place, I think, they
call it, and in such a sombre house that it looks as if the windows
had never been opened. Her mother is dead, and such a faded,
hopeless-looking woman takes care of the house, a relation of the
father's, I understand, who is a business friend of George's, and with
whom he tells me he once had a slight misunderstanding. George did not
want Christmas to pass with these differences unsettled, and so, of
course, I went to call the very day I arrived and invited her and her
father to dine with us on Christmas Eve. We always celebrate our
Christmas then as you both know, on account of our old custom of
giving Christmas day to our servants. And I am so glad I went. I did
not, of course, see the father. Oh, it would make your heart ache to
see the inside of that house. Everything costly and solid, and yet
everything so joyless. I always feel sorry for such homes,--no flowers
about, no books that are not locked up, no knick-knacks nor pretty
things. I hope you will both help me to make her Christmas Eve a happy
one. You perhaps may know her father, Mr. Fitzpatrick,--he is in Wall