Різдвяна історія

           Thechildren’sfaces,hushedandclusteredroundtohearwhattheysolittleunderstood,werebrighter;anditwasahappierhouseforthisman’sdeath.TheonlyemotionthattheGhostcouldshowhim,causedbytheevent,wasoneofpleasure.

           ‘Letmeseesometendernessconnectedwithadeath,’saidScrooge,‘orthatdarkchamber,Spirit,whichweleftjustnow,willbeforeverpresenttome.’

           TheGhostconductedhimthroughseveralstreetsfamiliartohisfeet;andastheywentalong,Scroogelookedhereandtheretofindhimself,butnowherewashetobeseen.TheyenteredpoorBobCratchit’shouse;thedwellinghehadvisitedbefore;andfoundthemotherandthechildrenseatedroundthefire.

           Quiet.Veryquiet.ThenoisylittleCratchitswereasstillasstatuesinonecorner,andsatlookingupatPeter,whohadabookbeforehim.Themotherandherdaughterswereengagedinsewing.Butsurelytheywereveryquiet.

           ‘Andhetookachild,andsethiminthemidstofthem.’

           WherehadScroogeheardthosewords?Hehadnotdreamedthem.Theboymusthavereadthemout,asheandtheSpiritcrossedthethreshold.Whydidhenotgoon?

           Themotherlaidherworkuponthetable,andputherhanduptoherface.

           ‘Thecolourhurtsmyeyes,’shesaid.

           Thecolour!Ah,poorTinyTim.

           ‘They’rebetternowagain,’saidCratchit’swife.‘Itmakesthemweakbycandle-light;andIwouldn’tshowweakeyestoyourfatherwhenhecomeshome,fortheworld.Itmustbenearhistime.’

           ‘Pastitrather,’Peteranswered,shuttinguphisbook.