“Spirit, let me see some tenderness connected with a death, or this dark chamber, Spirit, will be forever present to me.”

The Ghost conducted him to poor Bob Cratchit’s house,—­the dwelling he had visited before,—­and found the mother and the children seated round the fire.

Quiet.  Very quiet.  The noisy little Cratchits were as still as statues in one corner, and sat looking up at Peter, who had a book before him.  The mother and her daughters were engaged in needlework.  But surely they were very quiet!

“‘And he took a child, and set him in the midst of them.’”

Where had Scrooge heard those words?  He had not dreamed them.  The boy must have read them out, as he and the Spirit crossed the threshold.  Why did he not go on?

The mother laid her work upon the table, and put her hand up to her face.

“The color hurts my eyes,” she said.

The color?  Ah, poor Tiny Tim!

“They’re better now again.  It makes them weak by candle-light; and I wouldn’t show weak eyes to your father when he comes home, for the world.  It must be near his time.”

“Past it, rather,” Peter answered, shutting up his book.  “But I think he has walked a little slower than he used, these few last evenings, mother.”

“I have known him walk with—­I have known him walk with Tiny Tim upon his shoulder, very fast indeed.”

“And so have I,” cried Peter.  “Often.”

“And so have I,” exclaimed another.  So had all.

“But he was very light to carry, and his father loved him so, that it was no trouble,—­no trouble.  And there is your father at the door!”

She hurried out to meet him; and little Bob in his comforter—­he had need of it, poor fellow—­came in.  His tea was ready for him on the hob, and they all tried who should help him to it most.  Then the two young Cratchits got upon his knees and laid, each child, a little cheek against his face, as if they said, “Don’t mind it, father.  Don’t be grieved!”

Bob was very cheerful with them, and spoke pleasantly to all the family.  He looked at the work upon the table, and praised the industry and speed of Mrs. Cratchit and the girls.  They would be done long before Sunday, he said.

“Sunday!  You went to-day, then, Robert?”

“Yes, my dear,” returned Bob.  “I wish you could have gone.  It would have done you good to see how green a place it is.  But you’ll see it often.  I promised him that I would walk there on a Sunday.  My little, little child!  My little child!”

He broke down all at once.  He couldn’t help it.  If he could have helped it, he and the child would have been farther apart, perhaps, than they were.

“Spectre,” said Scrooge, “something informs me that our parting moment is at hand.  I know it, but I know not how.  Tell me what man that was, with the covered face, whom we saw lying dead?”

The Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come conveyed him to a dismal, wretched, ruinous churchyard.