ad they not been a noble
team, Allan's pride. The way, however, was not long to us, for we had
much to talk about. Archie narrated his past life, and, curious about
mine, I had to tell him my simple story. Reserve there was none. Once
again we were boys, rejoicing in each other, and warming to one another
as true friends do in exchanging their inmost confidences. I will not
relate what he told, for I will weave into his narrative what I got
afterwards from his sister and his father and mother, and present it in
connected form. We were passing down a concession, which had every
indication of being a prosperous settlement, when Archie pointed to a
brick house in the far-distance as his. On drawing near we found its
inmates had been on the watch, for tumbling through the snow came four
children, who clambered in beside us, rejoiced to see their father and
anxious to know what he had brought for them. On reaching, at last, the
house there was gathered at the door the two oldest of the family, a
fine-looking girl and a tall lad, with the mother, and behind them an
aged couple. A hired man took the team, but the mare, looking to the lad
at the door, whinnied. He jumped forward and led her to her stall. 'That
is his pony,' remarked Archie. What a scene of rejoicing on that day of
joy the world over! Mrs Craig, to give her name, told how they had
waited the night before for the coming of Archie until the younger
members fell asleep in their chairs, how they had kept supper warm, and
how, not until two in the morning, they had gone to bed, convinced he
had stayed overnight somewhere on the road, for the possibility of
misadventure they would not admit The forenoon had been of more anxious
waiting, for as time slipped they began to dread an accident had
befallen him. To have him back safe, and the parcels safe, was perfect
joy, and the two youngest darted from the house to try the sleds Santa
Claus had sent them by their father. Mrs Craig, a tidy purpose-like
woman, was profuse in thanks to me for helping her husband. Archie's
father and mother struck me, at the first glance, as the finest old
couple my eyes had ever rested upon. He was tall and rugged in frame, as
became an old shepherd, but his face was a benediction--so calm, so
composed, such a look of perfect content. His companion recalled
grannie, only more alert. Burns might have taken them as models for his
song, John Anderson, my jo. As the sun was setting there was a sho