ederal officer, Colonel Denby, who had
been slightly wounded and captured in the fight, and who now sat
somewhat grim and moody before the fire, was their guest.

"Now, Stafford, open the bundle and let us into the secret," they all
said. "Some of us may get shot before we know it."

The Colonel, without a word, but with softened eyes, rose and, going to
his saddle, which lay on the ground near by, brought the parcel to the
fire. Kneeling down, he took out his knife and carefully opened the
outer cover of oil-skin. Many a jest was levelled at him across the
blazing logs as he did so. But a smile was on his face, and the
Federal colonel thought to himself what a fine, high-bred face it was.

One said the Colonel had turned pedler, and was trying to eke out a
living by running the blockade on Lilliputian principles; another
wagered that he had it full of Confederate bills; a third, that it was
a talisman against bullets, and so on. Within the outer covering were
several others; but at length the last was reached. As the Colonel
ripped carefully, the group gathered around and bent breathlessly over
him, the light from the blazing camp-fire shining ruddily on their
eager, weather-tanned faces. When the Colonel put in his hand and drew
out a toy sword, there was a general exclamation. But when he took the
doll from her soft wrapping, and then unrolled and held up a tiny
jacket and a pair of little trousers not much larger than a man's hand,
and just the size for a five-year-old boy, there was a dead silence and
the men turned away their faces from the fire, and more than one who
had boys of his own at home put his hand up to his eyes.

[Illustration: The Major's Christmas presents.]

One of them, the bronzed and weather-beaten officer who had charged the
Colonel with being a miser and who wore crepe on his sleeve, stretched
himself out on the ground, flat on his face, and sobbed. As Colonel
Stafford gently told his story of Charlie and Evelyn, even the grave
face of Colonel Denby looked somewhat changed in the light of the fire,
and he reached over for the doll.

"May I see it?"

"Certainly." A half dozen hands were stretched out to pass it to him.
He handled it tenderly.

"I, too, have a little one at home," he said in a low voice, as he
handed the doll back to Colonel Stafford. "The child of my only son.
He was killed at Genies's Mill."

That night Colonel Stafford and Colonel Denby slept under the sam