Perhaps he had good reason to hate the Union
soldiers. If he had not before, he has now. I wish I had let his turkeys
alone."

These words Frank did not exactly frame to himself, lying there in the
dark and silent tent; but so said the soul within him. And the next day
the culpability of his conduct was brought home still more forcibly to
his conscience by the receipt of a box from home. It contained, besides a
turkey, pies, cakes, apples, and letters. And in one of the letters his
mother wrote,--

"I hope these things will reach you by Christmas, and that you will
enjoy them, and share them with those who have been good to you, and
be very happy. We all think of the hardships you have to go through,
and would willingly give up many of our comforts if you could only
have them. We shall not have any turkey at Christmas--we shall all
be so much happier to think you have one. For I would not have you
so much as _tempted_ to do what you say some of the soldiers have
done--that is, steal the turkeys belonging to the secessionists. If
there are rebels at heart, not yet in open opposition to the
government, I would have you treat them kindly, and not provoke them
to hate our cause worse than they do already. And always remember
that, whatever the government may see fit to do to punish such men,
you have no right to interfere with either their private opinions or
their private property."

Why was it that the contents of Frank's Christmas box did not taste so
good to him as he had anticipated? Simply because he could partake of
neither pie nor turkey without the sorry sauce of a reproving conscience.

He thought to atone for his fault by magnanimity in sharing with others
what he could not relish alone. He gave liberally to all his mates, and
carried a large piece of the turkey, together with a generous supply of
stuffing, and an entire mince pie, to his old friend Sinjin.

Now, Frank had not, for the past month, been on as good terms with the
veteran as formerly. The meeting with Mrs. Manly in Boston seemed to have
awakened unpleasant remembrances in the old drummer's mind, and to render
him unpleasantly stiff and cold towards her son. He had received the
thanksgiving wreath with a very formal and stately acknowledgment, and
Frank, who knew not what warm torrents might be gushing beneath the stern
old man's icy exterior, had kept himself somewhat resentfully aloof fro