strange to us, and all our kith and kin, as if they had never lived.
Remember that, and charge their doings on themselves, not us.'

Scrooge promised that he would; and they went on, invisible, as they had
been before, into the suburbs of the town. It was a remarkable quality
of the Ghost (which Scrooge had observed at the baker's), that
notwithstanding his gigantic size, he could accommodate himself to any
place with ease; and that he stood beneath a low roof quite as
gracefully and like a supernatural creature as it was possible he could
have done in any lofty hall.

And perhaps it was the pleasure the good Spirit had in showing off this
power of his, or else it was his own kind, generous, hearty nature, and
his sympathy with all poor men, that led him straight to Scrooge's
clerk's; for there he went, and took Scrooge with him, holding to his
robe; and on the threshold of the door the Spirit smiled, and stopped to
bless Bob Cratchit's dwelling with the sprinklings of his torch. Think
of that! Bob had but fifteen 'Bob' a week himself; he pocketed on
Saturdays but fifteen copies of his Christian name; and yet the Ghost of
Christmas Present blessed his four-roomed house!

Then up rose Mrs. Cratchit, Cratchit's wife, dressed out but poorly in a
twice-turned gown, but brave in ribbons, which are cheap, and make a
goodly show for sixpence; and she laid the cloth, assisted by Belinda
Cratchit, second of her daughters, also brave in ribbons; while Master
Peter Cratchit plunged a fork into the saucepan of potatoes, and getting
the corners of his monstrous shirt-collar (Bob's private property,
conferred upon his son and heir in honour of the day,) into his mouth,
rejoiced to find himself so gallantly attired, and yearned to show his
linen in the fashionable Parks. And now two smaller Cratchits, boy and
girl, came tearing in, screaming that outside the baker's they had smelt
the goose, and known it for their own; and basking in luxurious thoughts
of sage and onion, these young Cratchits danced about the table, and
exalted Master Peter Cratchit to the skies, while he (not proud,
although his collars nearly choked him) blew the fire, until the slow
potatoes, bubbling up, knocked loudly at the saucepan-lid to be let out
and peeled.

'What has ever got your precious father, then?' said Mrs. Cratchit. 'And
your brother, Tiny Tim? And Martha warn't as late last Christmas Day by
half an hour!'

'Here's Martha, mother!' said a girl