Ailsa Paige

"Yes, sir."

The doctor bent above the table, took a hasty spoonful of pudding, nodded to the company, and went out.

"Speaking of malingerers," began Hammond, "I saw the Colonel of the forty Thieves put down in a most amusing manner the day before Bull Run. Shall I tell it? It involves some swearing."

Ailsa laughed. "Proceed, Dr. Hammond. Do you think Miss Lynden and I have been deaf since we arrived at the front?"

"Does anybody in this hospital use bad language?" demanded the doctor sharply.

"Not to us," said Ailsa, smiling. "But there's an army just outside the windows. Go on with your story, please."

"Well, then," said the jolly surgeon, "I was talking with Colonel Riley, when up walks the most honest-looking soldier I think I ever saw; and he gazed straight into the Colonel's eyes as he saluted. He wanted a furlough, it appeared, to go to New York and see his dying wife.

"Riley said: 'Is she very sick?'

"'Yes, Colonel.'

"'You have a letter: saying she is very sick?'

"'Yes, Colonel.'

"'Well, I also have a letter from your wife. I wanted to make certain about all the applications for furlough you have been making, so I wrote her.'

"'Yes, Colonel.'

"'And she says that she is perfectly well, and does not want you to come home!'

"The soldier smiled.

"'Did you write a letter to my wife, Colonel?'

"'I did."

"'Did my wife write to you?'

"'She did. And what do you mean by coming here to me with a lie about your sick wife! Have you anything to say to that?'

"'Yes, Colonel.'

"'Then say it!'

"'Well, Colonel, all I have to say is that there are two of the damnedest, biggest liars that ever lived, right here in this regiment!'

"'What!'

"The soldier grinned.

"'I'm not married at all,' he said, 'and I'm the biggest liar—and you can ask the boys who the damnedest liar is.'"

When the merriment and laughter had subsided, Hallam told another story rather successfully; then Hammond told another. Then Dr. West returned; the tiny Christmas tree, cut in the forest, and loaded with beribboned cakes and sticks of chocolate and a few presents tied in tissue-paper, was merrily despoiled.

Ailsa and Letty had worked slippers for the two doctors, greatly appreciated by them, apparently; Hallam had some embroidered handkerchiefs from Ailsa, and she received a chain and locket from him—and refrained from opening the locket, although everybody already had surmised that their engagement was a fact.

Letty sent an orderly for her guitar, and sang very sweetly an old-fashioned song:

"When the moonlight
Shines bright
Silvery bright on the sea."

Ailsa sang "Aileen Aroon," and "Oft in the Stilly Night," and everybody, later, sang "The Poor Old Soldier."

The fire glowed red in the chimney; gigantic shadows wavered on wall and ceiling; and, through the Christmas candles dimly burning, the branches of the little evergreen spread, laden with cake and candy.

"They're to have a tree in every ward to-morrow," said Ailsa, turning toward Hallam. Her eyes smiled, but her voice was spiritless. A tinge of sadness had somehow settled over the festivity; Hammond was staring at the fire, chin in hand; West sipped his wine reflectively; Letty's idle fingers touched her guitar at intervals, as her dark eyes rested on Ailsa and Hallam.

Hallam had found in camp a copy of a Southern newspaper; and, thinking it might amuse the company to read it, produced it. Ailsa, looking over his shoulder, noticed a poem called "Christmas," printed on the first page.

"Read it aloud," he said, laughing. "Let's hear what sort of Christmas poetry the Johnnies produce."

So, after smilingly scanning the first lines, she began, aloud; but her face had grown very grave, and her low voice thrilled them as she became conscious of the deeper sadness of the verse.

"How grace this Hallowed Day?
Shall happy bells from yonder ancient spire
Send their glad greetings to each Christmas fire
Round which our children play?

"How shall we grace the Day?
With feast and song and dance and homely sport,
And shout of happy children in the court,
And tales of ghost and fay?

"Is there indeed a door
Where the old pastimes with their joyful noise
And all the merry round of Christmas joys
Can enter as of yore?

"Would not some pallid face
Look in upon the banquet, calling up
Dread shapes of battle in the Christmas cup,
And trouble all the place?

"How can we hear the mirth
While some loved reveller of a year ago
Keeps his mute Christmas now beneath the snow,
In cold Virginia earth—"

Her voice suddenly broke; she laughed, slightly hysterical, the tears glittering in her eyes.

"I—c-can't—read it, somehow. . . . Forgive me, everybody, I think I'm—tired–"