title: a-christmas-carol.txt.
 see his good deeds springing from the
wound, to sow the world with life immortal!

No voice pronounced these words in Scrooge's ears, and yet he heard them
when he looked upon the bed. He thought, if this man could be raised up
now, what would be his foremost thoughts? Avarice, hard dealing, griping
cares? They have brought him to a rich end, truly!

He lay in the dark, empty house, with not a man, a woman, or a child to
say he was kind to me in this or that, and for the memory of one kind
word I will be kind to him. A cat was tearing at the door, and there was
a sound of gnawing rats beneath the hearthstone. What _they_ wanted in
the room of death, and why they were so restless and disturbed, Scrooge
did not dare to think.

'Spirit!' he said, 'this is a fearful place. In leaving it, I shall not
leave its lesson, trust me. Let us go!'

Still the Ghost pointed with an unmoved finger to the head.

'I understand you,' Scrooge returned, 'and I would do it if I could. But
I have not the power, Spirit. I have not the power.'

Again it seemed to look upon him.

'If there is any person in the town who feels emotion caused by this
man's death,' said Scrooge, quite agonised, 'show that person to me,
Spirit, I beseech you!'

The Phantom spread its dark robe before him for a moment, like a wing;
and, withdrawing it, revealed a room by daylight, where a mother and her
children were.

She was expecting some one, and with anxious eagerness; for she walked
up and down the room, started at every sound, looked out from the
window, glanced at the clock, tried, but in vain, to work with her
needle, and could hardly bear the voices of her children in their play.

At length the long-expected knock was heard. She hurried to the door,
and met her husband; a man whose face was careworn and depressed, though
he was young. There was a remarkable expression in it now, a kind of
serious delight of which he felt ashamed, and which he struggled to
repress.

He sat down to the dinner that had been hoarding for him by the fire,
and when she asked him faintly what news (which was not until after a
long silence), he appeared embarrassed how to answer.

'Is it good,' she said, 'or bad?' to help him.

'Bad,' he answered.

'We are quite ruined?'

'No. There is hope yet, Caroline.'

'If _he_ relents,' she said, amazed, 'there is! Nothing is past hope, if
such a miracle has happened.'

'He is past relenting,' said her husband. 'He is dead.'

She was a mild and patient creature, if her face spoke truth; but she
was thankful in her soul to hear it, and she said so with clasped hands.
She prayed forgiveness the next moment, and was sorry; but the first was
the emotion of her heart.

'What the half-drunken woman, whom I told you of last night, said to me
when I tried to see him and obtain a week's delay--and what I thought
was a mere excuse to avoid me--turns out to have been quite true. He was
not only very ill, but dying, then.'

'To whom will our debt be transferred?'

'I don't know. But, before that time, we shall be ready with the money;
and even though we were not, it would be bad fortune indeed to find so
merciless a creditor in his successor. We may sleep to-night with light
hearts, Caroline!'

Yes. Soften it as they would, their hearts were lighter. The children's
faces, hushed and clustered round to hear what they so little
understood, were brighter; and it was a happier house for this man's
death! The only emotion that the Ghost could show him, caused by the
event, was one of pleasure.

'Let me see some tenderness connected with a death,' said Scrooge; 'or
that dark chamber, Spirit, which we left just now, will be for ever
present to me.'

The Ghost conducted him through several streets familiar to his feet;
and as they went along, Scrooge looked here and there to find himself,
but nowhere was he to be seen. They entered 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 sewing. 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 colour hurts my eyes,' she said.

The colour? Ah, poor Tiny Tim!

'They're better now again,' said Cratchit's wife. '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