she had forgotten to warn us that
most of our rooms were occupied. However, she recollected very quickly,
and hurrying, panting after us, brought us all dry garments into Hollis'
room.

The captain had followed us, and arrived as we came back. Uncle Boz was
about to make another jorum of negus. He looked up, spoon in hand.
"Welcome on shore, 'tis no time for ceremony," he cried out. "Always
glad to receive a seaman, in distress. There, turn into my bed in the
room through there. Your men shall have rugs in the other room there,
till their clothes are dry."

Where was our Christmas dinner all this time? That had the caboose to
itself, and Bambo every now and then stumped off to see how it was going
on, Miss Deborah also occasionally looking in for the same purpose. By
the time the dinner was cooked, the seamen's clothes were dried, and
then the table was spread in the dining-room, and Uncle Boz, standing
up, asked a blessing on the food, and told the shipwrecked seamen to
fall to. Miss Deborah carried off certain portions of the turkey and
ham up-stairs, and Uncle Boz, in like manner, took some into his best
guest-chamber, the one built for his late shipmate. All I know is that
every scrap had disappeared before he found out that neither he nor any
of us had eaten a morsel. He winked to us to say nothing about the
matter, and Bambo soon after placed on the drawing-room table some bread
and cheese, and a huge pile of gigantic mince-pies. We demolished them,
and I may honestly say that I never more thoroughly enjoyed a Christmas
dinner, at least seeing one eaten.

I have a good deal more to say about that pair of blue eyes, now closed
by sleep in the arm-chair, and those up-stairs to whom the little owner
belonged; but I must cry avast for the present. Well! there _is_ a
satisfaction in toiling, and denying ourselves to do good to others, and
to make them happy, and that is the reason why I have an idea that that
same day I have been describing was one of the most satisfactory
Christmas days I ever spent.

STORY TWO, CHAPTER 2.

More than a year had passed away since those Christmas holidays when the
wreck happened, and my brother and I were again to become inmates of
Uncle Boz's unique abode. It was midsummer; the trees were green, the
air warm and balmy, the wind blew gently, and the broad blue sea
sparkled brightly, and seemed joyously to welcome our return.

A somewhat poetical notion; the fact