being so babyish. But, Jimmy, it's like living in a nightmare to have that one thought haunt me day and night. I don't mind the dying – I'll be glad to go. It racks me so to cough. But it's the dying so far away from home – alone! I can't go without seeing mother once more! Just once, Jimmy, one little minute."
The old man's mouth twitched. There was no answer to that kind of an appeal.
"Mail!" called a voice outside. The ranch wagon had come back from Ph[oe]nix, and Hillis was going from tent to tent with the letter-bag. "Mr. Dane Ward," he called. "One letter and one package. Christmas is beginning a week ahead of time," he added as Jimmy came to the door.
Dane sat up and opened the letter first, with fingers that trembled in their eagerness. He read snatches of it aloud, his face brightening with each new item of interest.
"They're going to have an oyster supper and a Christmas tree for the Sunday-school. And Charlie Morrow broke into the mill-pond last Saturday, and the whole skating party nearly drowned trying to fish him out. Mr. Miller's barn burned last week, and Ed Morris and May Dawson ran away and were married at Beaver Dam Station. It's like opening a window into the village and looking down every street to get mother's letters. I can see everybody that passes by, and pretty near smell what people are cooking for dinner. She's sending my Christmas present a week ahead of time, because from what I wrote about the cold nights she was sure I'd need it right away. Cut the string, please, Jimmy."
Two soft outing flannel shirts rolled out of the paper wrapping. Dane spread them on the bed beside him with fond touches.
"She made every stitch of them herself," he said proudly, smiling as he turned the page for the last sentence.
"Christmas will not be Christmas to us with you so far away, dear boy, but we are going to be brave and make as merry as we can, looking forward to the time when that blessed land of sunshine will send you back to us, strong and well."
The letter dropped from his hands and Jimmy heard him say with a shivering, indrawn breath, "But that time will never come! Never!" Then catching up the mass of soft flannel as if it brought to him in some way the touch of the dear hands that had shaped it, he flung himself back on the pillow, burying his face in it to stifle the sobs that would slip out between his clenched teeth.
"Never go home again!" he moaned once. "God! How can I stand it!" Then in a pitiful whisper, "Oh, mother, I want you so."
Jimmy got up and tip-toed softly out of the tent.
That night, Batty Carson, taking his after-supper constitutional, strode up and down outside the camp, his hands in his overcoat pockets. The little tents, each with a lamp inside, throwing grotesque shadows on the white canvas walls, made him think of a cluster of Chinese lanterns. Only the last one in the last row was dark, and moved by a friendly impulse to ask after Dane's welfare, he strolled over towards it. Had it not been for the odour of a rank pipe, he might have stumbled over Jimmy, in the camp chair outside Dane's door.
"Playing sentinel?" he asked.
"No, just keeping the lad company a spell. He can't bear to hear them kiotes howl."
"You're lively company, I must say," bantered Batty. "I didn't hear much animated conversation as I came up."
Jimmy glanced over his shoulder. "No," he said in a lower tone. "He's asleep now."
Lighting a cigar, Batty unfolded a camp stool which was leaning against one of the guy ropes, and seated himself. Jimmy seemed in a confidential mood.
"I've been setting here," he began, "studying about a Christmas present that had ought to be made this year. I ain't got no call to make it, but there's plenty of others that could do it and never miss it. I've got an old uncle that sets 'em up now and then, but he isn't liable to send me another check before February, so I can't do it."
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