“A plain family dinner, you see,” said Mr. Smith, as we took our places at the meagre board.  “We are plain people.  Shall I help you to some of the ham and eggs?”

He tried to smile pleasantly, and to seem very much at his ease.  But, the attempt was far from successful.

“I want some!  Don’t give him all!” screamed out the hungry child at my side, stretching out his hands towards the poorly supplied dish, from which my husband was about supplying our guest.

My face, which was red enough before, now became like scarlet.  A moment longer I remained at the table, and then rising up quickly took the impatient child in my arms, and carried him screaming from the room.  I did not return to grace the dinner table with my unattractive presence.  Of what passed, particularly, between my husband and his friend Mr. Jones, who had left his luxurious dinner at the hotel to enjoy “a plain family dinner” with his old acquaintance, I never ventured to make enquiry.  They did not remain very long at the table; nor very long in the house after finishing their frugal meal.

I have heard since that Mr. Jones has expressed commiseration for my husband, as the married partner of a real termigant.  I don’t much wonder at his indifferent opinion; for, I rather think I must have shown in my face something of the indignant fire that was in me.

Mr. Smith, who was too much in the habit of inviting people home to take a “family dinner” with him on the spur of the moment, has never committed that error since.  His mortification was too severe to be easily forgotten.

CHAPTER VIII.

Who is Kriss Kringle?

It was the day before Christmas—­always a day of restless, hopeful excitement among the children; and my thoughts were busy, as is usual at this season, with little plans for increasing the gladness of my happy household.  The name of the good genius who presides over toys and sugar plums was often on my lips, but oftener on the lips of the children.

“Who is Kriss Kringle, mamma?” asked a pair of rosy lips, close to my ear, as I stood at the kitchen table, rolling out and cutting cakes.

I turned at the question, and met the earnest gaze of a couple of bright eyes, the roguish owner of which had climbed into a chair for the purpose of taking note of my doings.

I kissed the sweet lips, but did not answer.

“Say, mamma?  Who is Kriss Kringle?” persevered the little one.

“Why, don’t you know?” said I, smiling.

“No, mamma.  Who is he?”

“Why, he is—­he is—­Kriss Kringle.”

“Oh, mamma!  Say, won’t you tell me?”

“Ask papa when. he comes home,” I returned, evasively.

I never like deceiving children in any thing.  And yet, Christmas after Christmas, I have imposed on them the pleasant fiction of Kriss Kringle, without suffering very severe pangs of conscience.  Dear little creatures! how fully they believed, at first, the story; how soberly and confidingly they hung their stockings in the chimney corner; with what faith and joy did they receive their many gifts on the never-to-be-forgotten Christmas morning!