did. But this time he did not dare.

You are not going to hear the eight stories. Mr. Dickens was not there;
nor, indeed, was I. But a jolly Christmas dinner they had; though they
had not those eight stories. Quiet they were, and very, very happy. It
was a strange thing,--if one could have analyzed it,--that they should
have felt so much at home, and so much at ease with each other, in that
queer Virginian kitchen, where the doctor and his friends of his mess
had arranged the feast. It was a happy thing, that the recollections of
so many other Christmas homes should come in, not sadly, but pleasantly,
and should cheer, rather than shade the evening. They felt off
soundings, all of them. There was, for the time, no responsibility. The
strain was gone. The gentlemen were glad to be dining with ladies, I
believe: the ladies, unconsciously, were probably glad to be dining with
gentlemen. The officers were glad they were not on duty; and the
prisoner, if glad of nothing else, was glad he was not in bed. But he
was glad for many things beside. You see it was but a little post. They
were far away; and they took things with the ease of a detached command.

"Shall we have any toasts?" said the doctor, when his nuts and raisins
and apples at last appeared.

"Oh, no! no toasts,--nothing so stiff as that."

"Oh, yes! oh, yes!" said Grace. "I should like to know what it is to
drink a toast. Something I have heard of all my life, and never saw."

"One toast, at least, then," said the doctor. "Colonel Bartlett, will
you name the toast?"

"Only one toast?" said Horace; "that is a hard selection: we must vote
on that."

"No, no!" said a dozen voices; and a dozen laughing assistants at the
feast offered their advice.

"I might give 'The Country;' I might give 'The Cause;' I might give 'The
President:' and everybody would drink," said Horace. "I might give
'Absent friends,' or 'Home, sweet home;' but then we should cry."

"Why do you not give 'The trepanned people'?" said Worster, laughing,
"or 'The silver-headed gentlemen'?"

"Why don't you give 'The Staff and the Line'?" "Why don't you give
'Here's Hoping'?" "Give 'Next Christmas.'" "Give 'The Medical
Department; and may they often ask us to dine!'"

"Give 'Saints and Sinners,'" said Major Barthow, after the first outcry
was hushed.

"I shall give no such thing," said Horace. "We have had a lovely dinner;
and we know we have; and the host, who is a good fellow, knows the