of their presence; his dreamy eyes,
with lids half drooping, looking fixedly into the blazing fire. Even the
coffee, civilized as it was by the addition of some patent condensed
milk, and upon the manufacture of which Thompson had prided himself not
a little, stood untouched by his bedside. Old Platte lit his pipe and
dragged his three-legged stool into a corner of the wide chimney, and
Thompson, after moving the things away to a corner, sat down opposite,
mending his snow-shoes with a bundle of buckskin thongs. They did not
talk much in that family of evenings: men of this class are not
conversational in their habits, and a stranger who should look in would
be apt to think them an unsocial set. Old Platte puffed steadily at his
pipe, blinking and winking at the fire, which he poked occasionally with
a stick or fed with a log of wood from the pile by his side. Thompson
worked quietly with knife and awl at his dilapidated shoes, and the
pale, patient face beyond still gazed dreamily into the fire. There were
old scenes, doubtless, in among those burning logs--old familiar faces,
dear memories of the past and weird fantastic visions pictured in the
glowing coals. At last the eyes left the fire for a moment, resting on
the two that sat by it, and he said, "Boys, it's Christmas Eve."

Thompson started, for he had not heard him speak with so much energy for
weeks.

"Christmas Eve!" he repeated absently. "Christmas Eve, and to-morrow
will be Christmas Day. Last Christmas was not like this: all was bright
and fair, and she--"

The rest of the sentence was lost as he muttered it uneasily to himself
and resumed his watching of the fire. Christmas Eve! So it was, but they
had not thought of it. Christmas Eve! The name seemed out of place among
those rocky fastnesses. What could the pines and the solitude, the snow
and the ice, have in common with Christmas? Christmas Eve down in that
desolate valley, in the quiet depths of the forest, away, miles away,
from human habitation of any kind? Christmas Eve! It seemed absurd, but
Christmas Eve it was nevertheless, there as everywhere else.

Old Platte took his blackened old pipe from between his lips and
mechanically repeated the words. "Christmas Eve!" he half growled, as if
some perplexing ideas had been called into existence by the suggestion,
and his pipe went out as he listlessly shoved some stray coals back into
the fire with his foot. But his meditations, to judge from his
c