The end of that Christmas was better than the beginning. Major Stafford justified Bob's confidence. The holiday was not quite over when one evening Major Stafford galloped up to the gate through the mist, his black horse, Ajax, splashed with mud to his ear-tips. He had ridden him seventy miles that day to keep that tryst. The Major soon heard all about the little ones' disappointment at not receiving any new presents. "Santa Tlaus didn' tum this Trismas, but he's tummin' _next_ Trismas," said Evelyn, looking wisely up at him, that evening, from the rug, where she was vainly trying to make her doll's head stick on her broken shoulders. "And why did he not come this Christmas, Miss Wisdom?" laughed her father, touching her caressingly with the toe of his boot. "Tause the Yankees wouldn't let him," said she, gravely, holding her doll up and looking at it pensively, her head on one side. "And why, then, should he come next year?" "Taus God's goin' to make him." She turned the mutilated baby around and examined it gravely, with her shining head still set on the other side. "There's faith for you," said Mrs. Stafford. Her husband asked the child: "How do you know this?" "Tause God told me," answered Evelyn, still busy with her inspection. "He did? When?" "'Tother night when I saw him." "You saw him!" "Um--hm"--nodding her head cheerfully. "Well! I knew she was an angel," said Major Stafford in an aside to his wife; "but--What did He say Santa Claus is going to bring you?" he asked. The little mite sprang to her feet. "He's goin' to bring me--a--great--big--dolly--with real, sure-'nough hair, and blue eyes that will go to sleep, and her name's Miss Please-Ma'am." Her face was aglow, and she stretched her plump hands wide apart to give the size. "She has dreamt it," said the Major in an undertone to her mother. "There is not such a doll as that in the Southern Confederacy." The child caught his meaning. "Yes, He _is_," she insisted, "'cause I asked Him an' He said he would; and Charlie----" Just then that youngster burst into the room, a small whirlwind in petticoats. As soon as his cyclonic tendencies could be curbed his father asked him: "Well, what did you ask Santa Claus for, young man?" "For a pair of breeches and a sword," answered the boy promptly, striking an attitude. "And I'm going to have 'em. I told Him I just had to have 'em." "Well, upon my word!" laughed his father, eyeing the erect little figure and the steady, clear eyes which looked proudly up at him. "I had no idea what a young Achilles we had here. You shall have them." The boy nodded gravely. "All right. When I get to be a man I won't let anybody make my mamma cry." He advanced a step, with head up, the very picture of spirit. "Ah! you won't?" said his father, with a gesture to prevent his wife interrupting. "Nor my little sister," said the young warrior, patronizingly, swelling with infantile importance.