“‘What a pretty place!’ said the mother; ’but I fear the rent will be too high for us.’

“‘Well, there is no harm in inquiring,’ said the workman, and he rang the bell.

“A young man, dressed like a mechanic, answered the summons.  He invited them in; the house was comfortably, but not richly furnished.  They went through it and into the garden; they were delighted with everything.  And then came the question they feared to ask:  What was the rent?

“‘Well,’ said the young man, pleasantly, I must explain my position.  I am a printer by trade.  My name is Francis Montgomery.  I own this house.  It was left to me by my parents.  It is all I have.  I am not married.  I cannot live in it alone; it is too big for that; and, besides, I think I should get some income out of it, for there are the taxes to be paid.  But I do not want to leave the house.  I was born and raised here.  I thought that if I could get some pleasant family to take it, who would let me retain one of the upper rooms, and would board me, I would rent the house for’—­here he mentioned a ridiculously low price.  ‘I do not want,’ he added, ’any expensive fare.  I am content to take “pot-luck” with the family.  I like your looks; and if you want the house, at the terms I have named, I think we can get along pleasantly together.  I may not be here all the time.’

“The offer was accepted; the workman was dismissed with thanks.  That afternoon the whole family moved in.  The delight of Christina was unbounded.  There was one room which I had forseen would be assigned to her, and that I had adorned with some flowers.  She was introduced to me; we shook hands; and I was soon a member of the family.  What a curious flock of little white-heads, of all ages, they were—­sturdy, rosy, chubby, healthy, merry, and loving toward one another.  They brought very little of their poor furniture with them; it was too shabby for the new surroundings; they gave it away to their former neighbors.  But I noticed that the father carefully carried into the kitchen an old chair, time-worn and venerable; the back was gone, and it was nothing but a stool.  The next day I observed a pudgy little boy, not quite three years old (the father’s favorite, as I discovered), driving wrought nails into it with a little iron hammer.

“‘Stop! stop! my man!’ I exclaimed; ’you must not drive nails in the furniture.’

“I looked at the chair:  the seat of it was a mass of nailholes.  And then Christina, noticing my looks of perplexity, said: 

“’Last Christmas we were very, very poor.  Papa was out of work.  We could scarcely get enough to eat.  Papa saw the preparations in the store windows for Christmas—­the great heaps of presents; and he saw the busy parents hurrying about buying gifts for their children, and he felt very sad that he could not give us any presents, not even to little Ole, whom he loves so much.  So he went into the blacksmith shop of a friend, and, taking up a piece of iron that had been thrown on the floor, he made that little hammer Ole has in his hand, and a number of wrought nails; and he brought them home and showed Ole how to use the hammer and drive the nails into the chair; and when he had driven them all into the wood, papa would pry them out for him, and the work would commence all over again, and Ole was happy all day long.’