e of
shadows at the home of Miss Dennihan, lay as if debating, in his grave,
baby way, the pros and cons of existence. And even when, at last, he
was well on the road to recovery, he somehow seemed more quiet than
ever before.

The rough old "boys" of the town could not, by any process of their
fertile brains, find an adequate means of expressing their relief and
delight when they knew at last the quaint little fellow was again
himself.

They came to Miss Dennihan's in groups, with brand-new presents and
with wonderful spirits. They played on the floor like so many
well-meaning bears; they threatened to fetch their poor, neglected
Christmas-tree from the blacksmith-shop; they urged Miss Doc to start a
candy-pull, a night-school, a dancing-class, and a game of
blindman's-buff forthwith. Moreover, not a few discovered traces of
beauty and sweetness in the face of the formerly plain, severe old
maid, and slyly one or two began a species of courtship.

On all their manoeuvres the little convalescent looked with grave
curiosity. Such antics he had surely never seen. Pale and silent, as
he sat on Jim's big knee one evening, he watched the men intently,
their crude attempts at his entertainment furnishing an obvious puzzle
to his tiny mind. Then presently he looked with wonder and awe at the
presents, unable to understand that all this wealth of bottles, cubes,
tops, balls, and wagons was his own.

The carpenter was spelling "cat" and "dog" and "Jim" with the blocks,
while Field was rolling the balls on the floor and others were
demonstrating the beauties and functions of kaleidoscopes and endless
other offerings; but through it all the pale little guest of the camp
still held with undiminished fervor to the doll that Jim had made when
first he came to Borealis.

"We'd ought to git up another big Christmas," said the blacksmith,
standing with his arms akimbo. "He didn't have no holidays worth a
cent."

"We could roll 'em all into one," suggested Field--"Christmas, New
Year's, St. Valentine's, and Fourth of July."

"What's the matter with Washington's birthday?" Bone inquired.

"And mine?" added Keno, pulling down his sleeves. "By jinks! it comes
next week."

"Aw, you never had a birthday," answered the teamster. "You was jest
mixed up and baked, like gingerbread."

"Or a lemon pie," said the carpenter, with obvious sarcasm.

"Wal, holidays are awful hard for some little folks to digest," said
Jim. "I'