b you."

"And look here!" Stephen cried, who had at length reached the bottom of
the bundle. "Well, I declare! Two packages of Red Rose tea! Hurrah!
Now we kin have some fer Christmas."

"And you, poor man," she said turning to Sinclair, "shall have a good
strong cup just as soon as I can make it. It seems to me I must be
dreaming," and the excited woman bustled off to the kitchen.

"Fool! fool!" Sinclair mused to himself as he sipped the delicious
beverage. "I thought such gifts went only to rogues and lazy rascals.
I was wrong. And yet, some of that tea has reached one of the biggest
fools and rogues in the whole country, and that is Peter Sinclair."

"And now, children," said Mrs. Bean, when the excitement of the evening
had somewhat subsided, "it's getting late. Let's have a Christmas
hymn, and then Dora must go to bed. You don't mind, sir, I hope. We
always sing several hymns on Christmas eve, and last year he was here
to start them, for he had a good voice."

"Oh, no," Sinclair replied. "I don't mind, so go ahead."

The mother started and all joined in; and as the words of "Hark the
Herald Angels Sing" floated forth, old memories came drifting into the
mind of the silent listener on the sofa. He forgot for a time his
surroundings and saw only the little parish church, of his boyhood
days, decked with fresh bright evergreens, and heard the choir singing
the familiar carols. Several faces stood forth in clear relief; his
parents', honest and careworn; his rector's, transfigured with a holy
light; and one, fresh and fair, encircled by a wreath of light-brown
tresses.

He came to himself with a start, thinking the choir was singing "Glory
to the New-Born King," when it was only the little group at his side
finishing their hymn. Tears were stealing down his cheeks, which he
quickly brushed away, lest his emotion should be observed.

That night, when the house was quiet, Sinclair drew forth a small
note-book and wrote a few lines to the foreman of Camp Number Three.
"Send word to the other camps as quickly as possible, and tell the men
they need not come back till next Monday." He then brought forth a
thin book and made out a cheque for no small amount, payable to Mrs.
Bean on account.

Little did Peter Sinclair realise that the letter written to the
foreman would never reach its destination, and that months would pass
before the cheque would be presented for payment.

CHAPTER XVII

THE