They went to sleep on the night before Christmas--or rather they went to bed, for sleep was long far from their eyes,--with little squeakings and gurglings, like so many little white mice, and if Santa Claus had not always been so very punctual in disappearing up the chimney before daybreak, he must certainly have been caught; for by the time the chickens were crowing in the morning there would be an answering twitter through the house, and with a patter of little feet and subdued laughter small white-clad figures would steal through the dim light of dusky rooms and passages, opening doors with sudden bursts, and shouting “Christmas gift!” into darkened chambers, at still sleeping elders, then scurrying away in the gray light to rake open the hickory embers and revel in the exploration of their crowded stockings. Such was Christmas morning at Holly Hill in the old times before the war. Thus it was, that at Christmas 1863, when there were no new toys to be had for love or money, there were much disappointment and some murmurs at Holly Hill. The children had never really felt the war until then, though their father, Major Stafford, had been off, first with his company and then with his regiment, since April, 1861. Now from Mrs. Stafford down to little tot Evelyn, there was an absence of the merriment which Christmas always brought with it. Their mother had done all she could to collect such presents as were within her reach, but the youngsters were much too sharp not to know that the presents were “just fixed up”; and when they were all gathered around the fire in their mother’s chamber, Christmas morning, looking over their presents, their little faces wore an expression of pathetic disappointment. “I don’t think much of _this_ Christmas,” announced Ran, with characteristic gravity, looking down on his presents with an air of contempt. “A hatchet, a ball of string, and a hare-trap isn’t much.” Mrs. Stafford smiled, but the smile soon died away into an expression of sadness. “I too have to do without my Christmas gift,” she said. “Your father wrote me that he hoped to spend Christmas with us, and he has not come.” “Never mind; he may come yet,” said Bob encouragingly. (Bob always was encouraging. That was why he was “Old Bob.”) “An axe was just the thing I wanted, mamma,” said he, shouldering his new possession proudly. Mrs. Stafford’s face lit up again. “And a hatchet was what I wanted,” admitted Ran; “now I can make my own hare-traps.” “An’ I like a broked knife,” asserted Charlie stoutly, falling valiantly into the general movement, whilst Evelyn pushed her long hair out of her eyes, and hugged her baby, declaring: “I love my dolly, and I love Santa Tlaus, an’ I love my papa,” at which her mother took the little midget to her bosom, doll and all, and hid her face in her tangled curls. II. The holiday was scarcely over when one evening Major Stafford galloped up to the gate, his black horse Ajax splashed with mud to his ear-tips.