if it were the last? What if, when
another comes, and another, one voice, the kindest and cheerfullest
then, shall never say "Happy Christmas" to us again? Let us be
thankful for that day the more,--accept it the more as a sign of that
which will surely come.

Holmes, even, in his dreary room and drearier thought, felt the warmth
and expectant stir creeping through the land as the day drew near.
Even in the hospital, the sisters were in a busy flutter, decking their
little chapel with flowers, and preparing a fete for their patients.
The doctor, as he bandaged his broken arm, hinted at faint rumours in
the city of masquerades and concerts. Even Knowles, who had not
visited the hospital for weeks, relented and came back, moody and grum.
He brought Kitts with him, and started him on talking of how they kept
Christmas in Ohio on his mother's farm; and the poor soul, encouraged
by the silence of two of his auditors, and the intense interest of Lois
in the background, mazed on about Santa-Claus trees and Virginia reels
until the clock struck twelve, and Knowles began to snore.

Christmas was coming. As he stood, day after day, looking out of the
gray window, he could see the signs of its coming even in the
shop-windows glittering with miraculous toys, in the market-carts with
their red-faced drivers and heaps of ducks and turkeys, in every
stage-coach or omnibus that went by crowded with boys home for the
holidays, hallooing for Bell or Lincoln, forgetful that the election
was over, and Carolina out.

Pike came to see him one day, his arms full of a bundle, which turned
out to be an accordion for Sophy.

"Christmas, you know," he said, taking off the brown paper, while he
was cursing the Cotton States the hardest, and gravely kneading at the
keys, and stretching it until he made as much discord as five
Congressmen. "I think Sophy will like that," he said, looking at it
sideways, and tying it up carefully.

"I am sure she will," said Holmes,--and did not think the man a fool
for one moment.

Always going back, this Holmes, when he was alone, to the certainty
that home-comings or children's kisses or Christmas feasts were not for
such as he,--never could be, though he sought for the old time in
bitterness of heart; and so, dully remembering his resolve, and waiting
for Christmas eve, when he might end it all. Not one of the myriads of
happy children listened more intently to the clock clanging off hour
after hou