ashioned houses at the North End, inhabited by old-fashioned
people, the ruddy light that streamed through the parlor windows on
the street announced that huge fires of oak and hickory were blazing
on the ample hearths. But in far the greater number of dwellings, the
less genial, but more powerful anthracite was contending with the
wintry elements.

In an upper room of an old, crazy, wooden house, a poor woman, thinly
clad, sat sewing beside a rusty, sheet-iron stove, poorly supplied
with chips. She had been once eminently handsome, and but for the
wanness and hollowness of her face, would have appeared so still.

Two little boys, of eight and nine years of age, were warming
themselves, or seeking to warm themselves, at the stove, before
retiring to their little bed in a small room adjoining.

"Isn't this nice, mother?" said the younger, a bright, black-eyed boy.
"Didn't I get a nice lot of chips to-day?"

"Yes, dearest, you are always a good and industrious boy," said the
mother, snatching a moment from her work to imprint a kiss upon his
forehead.

"Poor pa' will have a nice fire to warm him when he comes home," said
the elder boy.

At this allusion to the child's father, the mother burst into tears.
The countenances of both the children fell. They knew too well the
cause of their mother's bitter sorrow--the same cause had blighted
their own young hearts and clouded their innocent lives--their father
was a drunkard! Hence it was that, bright and intelligent as they
were, they could not go to school--they were too ragged for that--and
their time was required on the wharves to pick up fuel and such scraps
of provision as are scattered from the sheaves of the prosperous and
prodigal. For this reason, too, the mother had carefully forborne to
remind the children that this was Christmas eve. But they knew it too
well, and they contrasted its gloominess and sorrow with the
well-remembered anniversaries when this was a season of delight--the
eve of promised pleasures, of feasts, of dances, and of presents. With
this thought in their hearts they silently kissed their mother, and
retired to their little bed, committing themselves to "Our Father who
art in heaven," while the poor mother toiled on, listening with dread
for the returning footsteps of her husband.

The husband and father, whose return was thus dreaded, had worked late
at night in the shop of the carpenter who had given him temporary
employment, and who wa