e
And all the merry round of Christmas joys
Can enter as of yore?

"Would not some pallid face
Look in upon the banquet, calling up
Dread shapes of battle in the Christmas cup,
And trouble all the place?

"How can we hear the mirth
While some loved reveller of a year ago
Keeps his mute Christmas now beneath the snow,
In cold Virginia earth--"

Her voice suddenly broke; she laughed, slightly hysterical, the
tears glittering in her eyes.

"I--c-can't--read it, somehow. . . . Forgive me, everybody, I
think I'm--tired----"

"Nerves," said West cheerily. "It'll all come right in a moment,
Mrs. Paige. Go up and sit by Davis for a while. He's going fast."

Curious advice, yet good for her. And Ailsa rose and fled; but a
moment later, seated at the side of the dying man, all thought of
self vanished in the silent tragedy taking place before her.

"Davis?" she whispered.

The man opened his sunken eyes as the sleepy steward rose, gave his
bedside chair to Ailsa, and replaced the ominous screen.

"I am here, Private Davis," she said cheerily, winking away the
last tear drop.

Then the man sighed deeply, rested his thin cheek against her hand,
and lay very, very still.

At midnight he died as he lay. She scarcely realised it at first.
And when at length she did, she disengaged her chilled hand, closed
his eyes, drew the covering over his face, and, stepping from
behind the screen, motioned to the steward on duty.

Descending the stairs, her pale, pensive glance rested on the
locket flashing on its chain over the scarlet heart sewn on her
breast. Somehow, at thought of Hallam waiting for her below, she
halted on the stairway, one finger twisted in the gold chain. And
presently the thought of Hallam reminded her of the trooper and the
hot dinner she had promised the poor fellow. Had the cook been
kind to him?

She hastened downstairs, passed the closed door of the improvised
dining-room, traversed the hall to the porch, and, lifting the
skirts of her gray garb, sped across the frozen yards to the
kitchen.

The cook had gone; fire smouldered in the range; and a single
candle guttered in its tin cup on the table.

Beside it, seated on a stool, elbows planted on both knees, face
buried in his spread fingers, sat the lancer, apparently asleep.

She cast a rapid glance at the table. The remains of the food
satisfied her that he had had his hot dinner. Once more she
glanc