st make believe that Hod's stars have come from
Washington. Then we must call in that one-eyed servant of his; and we
will have

THE ORDERLY'S TALE.

Your handsome friend from Wisconsin shall tell

THE GERMAN'S TALE.

I shall be encouraged to tell

THE PRISONER'S TALE.

And you"--

"And I?" said Huldah laughing, because he paused.

"You shall tell

THE SAINT'S TALE."

Barthow spoke with real feeling, which he did not care to disguise. But
Huldah was not there for sentiment; and without quivering in the least,
nor making other acknowledgment, she laughed as she knew she ought to
do, and said, "Oh, no! that is quite too grand, the story must end with

THE SUPERINTENDENT OF SPECIAL RELIEF'S
TALE.

It is a little unromantic to the sound; but that's what it is."

"I don't see," persisted the major, "if Superintendent of Special Relief
means Saint in Latin, why we should not say so."

"Because we are not talking Latin," said Huldah. "Listen to me; and,
before we come to dinner, I will tell you a story pretty enough for
Dickens, or any of them; and it is a story not fifteen minutes old.

"Have you noticed that black-whiskered fellow, under the gallery, by the
north window?--Yes, the same. He is French, enlisted, I think, in New
London. I came to him just now, managed to say _etrennes_ and _Noel_ to
him, and a few other French words, and asked if there were nothing we
could do to make him more at home. Oh, no! there was nothing; madame
was too good, and everybody was too good, and so on. But I persisted. I
wished I knew more about Christmas in France; and I staid by. 'No,
madame, nothing; there is nothing. But, since you say it,--if there were
two drops of red wine,--_du vin de mon pays, madame_; but you could not
here in Virginia.' Could not I? A superintendent of special relief has
long arms. There was a box of claret, which was the first thing I saw in
the store-room the day I took my keys. The doctor was only too glad the
man had thought of it; and you should have seen the pleasure that red
glass, as full as I could pile it, gave him. The tears were running down
his cheeks. Anna, there, had another Frenchman; and she sent some to
him: and my man is now humming a little song about the _vin rouge_ of
Bourgogne. Would not Mr. Dickens make a pretty story of that for
you,--'THE FRENCHMAN'S STORY'?"

Barthow longed to say that the great novelist would not make so pretty a
story as she