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 book. ‘But I think he has walked a little slower than he used, these few last evenings, mother.’
They were very quiet again. At last she said, and in a steady, cheerful voice, that only faltered once:
‘I have known him walk with—I have known him walk with Tiny Tim upon his shoulder very fast indeed.’
‘And so have I,’ cried Peter. ‘Often.’
‘And so have I,’ exclaimed another. So had all.
‘But he was very light to carry,’ she resumed, intent upon her work, ‘and his father loved him so, that it was no trouble, no trouble. And there is your father at the door!’
She hurried out to meet him; and little Bob in his comforter—he had need of it, poor fellow—came in. His tea was ready for him on the hob, and they all tried who should help him to it most. Then the two young Cratchits got upon his knees, and laid, each
