lover, and the returning
cheerfulness of her brother, Miss Edwards forgot to give more than a
passing thought to James Harris, while she busied herself in the
preparations for a holiday, which, to her, would be doubly an
anniversary, ever afterward.

The clouds, which had been gathering for a storm, during the past week,
sent down a deluge of rain, on Christmas Eve, making it necessary to
light fires in the long-empty fire-places, and giving a truly festive
glow to the holiday adornments of the Edwards Rancho. The ranch hands
were dancing to the music of the "Arkansas Traveler," in their separate
quarters. John Edwards's half-dozen friends from the city, with two or
three of his sister's, and the now convalescent Charles Erskine, clothed
in a suit of borrowed broadcloth, were making mirth and music, after
their more refined fashion, in Miss Edwards's parlor.

At the hour when, according to tradition, the Bethlehem Babe was born,
Missouri Joe appeared at the door, and made a sign to the master of the
house.

"It's a pity, like," said Joe, softly, "to leave him out thar in the
storm."

"'Him!' Do you mean Harris? How is he?"

"The storm can't hurt him none," continued Joe; "an' it do not look
right to fetch him in yer, nor to 'tother house, no more."

"What is it, John?" Miss Edwards asked anxiously, looking over his
shoulder into the darkness. "Has Harris returned?"

"They have brought him," answered John; "and we must have him in here."

She shrank away, frightened and distressed, while the men brought what
remained of Sandy-haired Jim, and deposited it carefully on a wooden
bench in the hall. There was little to be told. The men had found him at
the foot of a precipice where he had fallen. Beside him was a heavy
nugget of pure gold, which he was evidently carrying when he fell. He
had not died immediately, for in his breast-pocket was found the bond,
with this indorsement, in pencil:

"I hev lit onto the mine foller mi trail up the kenyon miss Mary
edwards is mi air so help me God goodby.

"JAMES HARRIS."

They buried him on Christmas Day; and Miss Edwards, smiling through her
quiet-flowing tears, adorned his coffin with evergreen-wreaths and
flowers. "I am glad to do this for him," she whispered to her lover,
"for if ever there was a heart into which Christ was born at its birth,
it was poor Jim's."

POEMS.

A PAGAN REVERIE.

Tell me, mother Nature! tender yet stern