r him, and so you would have been quit of
him."

"And besides, how was he to escape at last? He could never get rid of
her, you know."

"I was going to tell you," resumed the narrator, "only you had so many
shadow-remarks to make, that you would not let me."

"Go on; go on."

"There was a little grandchild who used to come and see him
sometimes--the only creature the miser cared for. Her mother was his
daughter; but the old man would never see her, because she had married
against his will. Her husband was now dead, but he had not forgiven her
yet. After the shadow he had seen, however, he said to himself, as he
lay awake that night--I saw the words on his face--'How shall I get rid
of that old devil? If I don't eat I shall die; and if I do eat I shall
be poisoned. I wish little Mary would come. Ah! her mother would never
have served me so.' He lay awake, thinking such things over and over
again, all night long, and I stood watching him from a dark corner,
till the dayspring came and shook me out. When I came back next night,
the room was tidy and clean. His own daughter, a sad-faced but
beautiful woman, sat by his bedside; and little Mary was curled up on
the floor by the fire, imitating us, by making queer shadows on the
ceiling with her twisted hands. But she could not think how ever they
got there. And no wonder, for I helped her to some very unaccountable
ones."

"I have a story about a granddaughter, too," said another, the moment
that speaker ceased.

"Tell it. Tell it."

"Last Christmas-day," he began, "I and a troop of us set out in the
twilight to find some house where we could all have something to do;
for we had made up our minds to act together. We tried several, but
found objections to them all. At last we espied a large lonely
country-house, and hastening to it, we found great preparations making
for the Christmas dinner. We rushed into it, scampered all over it, and
made up our minds in a moment that it would do. We amused ourselves in
the nursery first, where there were several children being dressed for
dinner. We generally do go to the nursery first, your majesty. This
time we were especially charmed with a little girl about five years
old, who clapped her hands and danced about with delight at the antics
we performed; and we said we would do something for her if we had a
chance. The company began to arrive; and at every arrival we rushed to
the hall, and cut wonderful capers of welcome. Betw