Thomas was waiting near to drive me home, his face quite radiant at the success of our enterprise.  Arrived at Oaklands, I entered with great glee into our culinary operations, and soon had the dinner prepared.  When my gentlemen came into the dining-room I was sitting, hot, and a trifle anxious, at the head of the table awaiting them.  My respect for the powers in the kitchen that carried on our domestic machinery with so little jar, greatly increased.  We had a laughable time changing the plates for our different courses.  Thomas, who was installed in Esmerelda’s place at the back of my chair, was about as awkward in his new situation as I was; but at the close of our repast, Mr. Winthrop, with apparent sincerity, assured us he had not enjoyed a dinner so much since his boyhood—­a compliment that fully repaid me for my worry until I had thought it well over, and saw that it was capable of several meanings.  I entertained them with a lively description of the scene going on at the Temperance Hall.  Mr. Bovyer declared his intention of accompanying me on my return—­a resolution, I could see, that was anything but pleasing to Mr. Winthrop.  I was secretly very glad, since it was possible he might make a donation to our doorkeeper.  Once on the way, Thomas drove his horses as I had never seen him do before.  Possibly he was afraid the supper might all be consumed.  He had paid his fee, and was resolved to get his money’s worth.  He may have hoped that by some happy chance he might sit down with those with whom he could not expect on any other occasion to have a similar privilege.  I paid particular attention to Mr. Bovyer.  As we passed Mr. Bowen’s table I saw him drop, in quiet fashion, a bank note upon it.  Mr. Bowen hastened to make change, but Mr. Bovyer shook his head and passed on.  I turned to look at Mr. Bowen, and saw his face suddenly light up so cheerfully that I concluded he had received a generous donation.  I led Mr. Bovyer up where the children, growing now very curious over the Christmas Tree, were with difficulty preserving the proprieties of the occasion.  He looked them over carefully, as if they were some distinct species from another planet, and then turning to me, said, “Did you say these were all poor children?”

“Their fathers are day laborers, and some of them are without that useful adjunct to childhood.”

“They look rosy and happy.”

“I presume they would look happy under present circumstances if their fathers were tramps.  You should see the homes some of them will return to when they leave here.  You would wonder at the forgetfulness of childhood.”

“How did you chance to think of this merry gathering?”

“I am not sure it was chance.  All our thoughts do not come in that way.”

“Are the children here who are to reap the largest benefit from this affair?”

“Yes.  Do you see those pale, pinched-faced girls with the pink-cotton frocks on, sitting at the end of that farthest bench, and these two boys just in front with clothes several sizes too large?”