Every night before Oscar Potter went to bed, he would sit in a large, overstuffed chair in front of his fireplace, warm his old bones, and sip on some potato soup. He lived in a large, dismal house that remained silent except for the sound of the clocks ticking and the metal tip of Oscar's Irish black Hawthorne cane tap, tap, tapping as he walked along the cold marble floors. Oscar was a grouchy old man-a real sourpuss-who lived as lonesome as an oyster. Once, the house had been filled with joy and the sounds of children laughing as they played throughout the hallways. Now, it seemed that joy...