t filled the sky.

Celia Craig wrote her and sent her boxes for herself; but the
contents of the parcels went to her sick men. Camilla wrote her
and requested information concerning Stephen, who was, it appeared,
very lax in correspondence; but Ailsa had not heard from Colonel
Craig since the 3rd Zouaves left Fortress Monroe, and she had no
information for either Celia or Camilla.

Christmas boxes for the hospital began to arrive early; presents
came to Ailsa from Colonel Arran, from Hallam, from Celia and
Camilla,

Letty had only one gift, a beautiful watch and chain from Dr.
Benton; and Ailsa, going up to undress for a short sleep before
supper, found the girl sitting with the little timepiece in her
hand, crying silently all to herself.

"Why, dear!" she exclaimed, "what in the world is the trouble?" and
put both arms around her. But Letty only laid her head against
Ailsa's breast, and sobbed anew, uncomforted.

"Won't you tell me what is wrong?" urged Ailsa, mystified.

"Yes . . . _I_ am . . . Don't pay attention to what I say, Mrs.
Paige. You--you like me, don't you?"

"I love you, dear,"

"Please--do. I am--very unhappy."

"You are only tired out. Listen; don't the wards look pretty with
all the laurel and evergreens and ribbons! Our poor boys will have
something to remind them of Christmas. . . . I--do you know that
young Langley is dead?"

"Yes--I helped him--die. Yesterday Dr. West seemed to think he
would get well. But Hammond couldn't stop the gangrene, and he cut
him almost to pieces. Oh--I'm very, very miserable--my boys die so
fast--so fast----"

"You mustn't be miserable on Christmas Eve! I won't let you be
silly!"

"I'm gay enough in the wards," said Letty listlessly; "I've got to
be. Can't I cry a little in my own room?"

"No, we haven't time to cry," said Ailsa decisively. "Lie down
beside me and go to sleep. Flannery has promised to wake us in
time for supper."

"I can't get Langley's terrible face out of my mind," whimpered
Letty, cuddling close to Ailsa, as they lay in bed in the wintry
darkness. "It was all drawn up on one side."

"But coma had set in," said Ailsa gently. "You know, he wasn't
suffering when he died. . . . You'll write to his mother, won't
you, dear? Or shall I?"

"I will. . . . She wanted to come, you remember, but she's
bedridden. . . . Her only son. . . . Yes, I'll write . . . I
think Peterson is going to die, next----"

"But Levy