A Merry Christmas by Louisa May Alcott Page B

teapot.
    â€œNot a bit, Mum; not a bit.”
    In walked the gentleman, and up rose the lady, saying, with a start and an aspect of relief:
    â€œBless me, I didn’t hear you! I began to think you were never coming to your tea, Mr. ’Rusalem.”
    Everybody called him Mr. ’Rusalem, and many people were ignorant that he had any other name. He liked it, for it began with the children, and the little voices had endeared it to him, not to mention the sound of it from Mrs. Podgers’ lips for ten years.
    â€œI know I’m late, Mum, but I really couldn’t help it. Tonight’s a busy time, and the lads are just good for nothing with their jokes and spirits, so I stayed to steady ’em and do a little job that turned up unexpected.”
    â€œSit right down and have your tea while you can, then. I’ve kept it warm for you, and the muffins are done lovely.”
    Mrs. Podgers bustled about with an alacrity that seemed to give an added relish to the supper; and when her companion was served, she sat smiling at him with her hand on the teapot, ready to replenish his cup before he could ask for it.
    â€œHave things been fretting of you, Mum? You looked downhearted as I came in, and that ain’t accordin’ to the time of year, which is merry,” said Mr. ’Rusalem, stirring his tea with a sense of solid satisfaction that would have sweetened a far less palatable draught.
    â€œIt’s the teapot. I don’t know what’s got into it tonight, but, as I was waiting for you, it set me thinking of one thing and another, till I declare I felt as if it had up and spoke to me, showing me how I wasn’t grateful enough for my blessings, but a deal more comfortable than I deserved.”
    While speaking, Mrs. Podgers’ eyes rested on an inscription that encircled the corpulent little silver pot: “
To our Benefactor—They who give to the poor lend to the Lord
.” Now one wouldn’t think there was anything in the speech or the inscription to disturb Mr. ’Rusalem; but there seemed to be, for he fidgeted in his chair, dropped his fork, and glanced at the teapot with a very odd expression. It was a capital little teapot, solid, bright as hands could make it, and ornamented with a robust young cherub perched upon the lid, regardless of the warmth of his seat. With her eyes still fixed upon it, Mrs. Podgers continued meditatively:
    â€œYou know how fond I am of the teapot for poor Podgers’ sake. I really feel quite superstitious about it; and when thoughts come to me, as I sit watching it, I have faith in them, because they always remind me of the past.”
    Here, after vain efforts to restrain himself, Mr. ’Rusalem broke into a sudden laugh, so hearty and infectious that Mrs. Podgers couldn’t help smiling, even while she shook her head at him.
    â€œI beg pardon, Mum; it’s hysterical; I’ll never do it again,” panted Mr. ’Rusalem, as he got his breath and went soberly on with his supper.
    It was a singular fact that whenever the teapot was particularly alluded to, he always behaved in this incomprehensible manner—laughed, begged pardon, said it was hysterical, and promised never to do it again. It used to trouble Mrs. Podgers very much, but she had grown used to it; and having been obliged to overlook many oddities in the departed Podgers, she easily forgave ’Rusalem his only one.
    After the laugh there was a pause, during which Mrs. Podgers sat absently polishing up the silver cherub, with the memory of the little son who died two Christmases ago lying heavy at her heart, and Mr. ’Rusalem seemed to be turning something over in his mind as he watched a bit of butter sink luxuriously into the warm bosom of a muffin. Once or twice he paused as if listening. Several times he stole a look at Mrs. Podgers and presently said, in a somewhat anxious tone:
    â€œYou was saying just now that you was a deal too