m
him ever since. But he still felt a yearning for their former friendship,
and he now hoped, with the aid of the good gifts of which he was the
bearer, to make up with him.

"I wish you a merry Christmas," said Frank, arrived at the old man's
tent.

"You are rather late for that, it seems to me," replied Sinjin, lifting
his brows, as he sat in his tent and looked quietly over his shoulder at
the visitor.

"I know it," said Frank. "But the truth is, I hadn't any thing to wish
you a merry Christmas with yesterday. But this morning I got a box by
express, full of goodies, direct from home."

"Ah!" said the old man, with a singular unsteadiness of eye, while he
tried to look cold and unconcerned.

"Yes; isn't it grand? A turkey of my mother's own stuffing, and pies of
her own baking, and every thing that's splendid. And she said she hoped
you would accept a share, with her very kind regards. And so I've brought
you some."

The old man had got up on his feet. But he did not offer to relieve
Frank's hands. He made no reply to his little speech; and he seemed not
so much to look _at_ him, as _through_ him, into some visionary past far
away. Perhaps it was not the drummer boy he saw at all, but fairer
features, still like his--a sweet young girl; the same he used to trot
upon his knees, in those unforgotten years, so long ago, when he was in
his manhood's prime, and life was still fresh to him, and he had not
lost his early faith in friendship and love.

There Frank stood, holding the cover of the Christmas box, with the good
things from home upon it, and waited, and wondered; and there the old man
stood and dreamed.

"Please, sir, will you let me leave them here?" said Frank, ready to cry
with disappointment at this strange reception.

The old man heaved a sigh, brushed his hand across his eyes, and came
back to the present. He stooped and took the gift with a tremulous smile,
but without a word. He did not tell the drummer boy that he had, in that
instant of forgetfulness, seen his mother as she was at his age, and that
his old heart now, though seemingly withered and embittered, gushed again
with love so sorrowful and yearning, that he could have taken her son in
his arms, even as he had so often taken her, and have wept over him. And
Frank, in his ignorance, went away, feeling more hurt than ever at his
old friend's apparent indifference.

* * * *

And now ma