en, that the smile of the babe in its first happy sleep may
come back to our faces as we lie at the gates in our last
and--perhaps--most peaceful slumber!

The laughter and the labor of the day were ended. The work of
preparation for the dinner on the morrow had extended well into the
evening, and at its conclusion the two men, satisfied with the result
of the pleasant task and healthily weary, retired to their cots. It
is needless to say that the thoughts of each were happy and their
feelings peaceful, and to such slumber comes quickly. Outside the
world was white and still, with the stillness that precedes the coming
of a winter storm. Through the voiceless darkness a few feathery
prophecies of coming snow were settling lazily downward. The great
stones in the fireplace were still white with heat, and the cabin was
filled with the warm afterglow of burned logs and massive brands that
ever and anon broke apart and flamed anew.

Suddenly the Trapper lifted himself on his couch, and, looking over
toward his companion, said:--

"Bill, didn't ye hear the bells ring?"

Wild Bill lifted himself to his elbow, and in sheer astonishment
stared at the Trapper, for he well knew there wasn't a bell within
fifty miles. The old man noticed the astonishment of his companion
and, realizing the incredibility of the supposition, said as if in
explanation of the strangeness of his questioning:--

"This be the night on which memory takes the home trail, Bill, and the
thoughts of the aged go backward." And, laying his head again on the
pillow, he murmured: "I sartinly conceited I heerd the bells ringin'."
And then he slept.

Aye, aye, Old Trapper; we of whitening heads know the truth of thy
saying and thy dreaming. Thou didst hear the bells ring. For often as
we sleep on Christmas eve the ringing of bells comes to us. Marriage
peal and funeral knell, chimes and tolling, clash of summons and
measured stroke, dying noises from a dead past swelling and
sinking, sinking and swelling, like falling and failing surf on a
wreck-strewn beach. Ah, me! where be the ships, the proud,
white-sailed ships, the rich-laden ships, whose broken timbers and
splintered spars lie now dank, weed-grown, sand-covered, on that
sorrowful shore, on that mournfully resounding shore of our past?

[Illustration: "Where be the ships?"]

But other bells, thank God, sound for us all, Old Trapper, on
Christmas eve,--not the bells of the past, but the bells of the