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 with the toe of his boot. “Tause the Yankees wouldn’ 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?” “Tause God’s goin’ to make him.” She turned the mutilated baby around and examined it gravely, with her shining head set on the other side. “There’s faith for you,” said Mrs. Stafford, as her husband asked, “How do you know this?” “Tause God told me,” answered Evelyn, still busy with her inspection. “He did? What is Santa Claus going to bring you?” 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.” Her face was aglow, and she stretched her 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,” he continued. 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 himself 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. “Well, upon my word!” laughed his father, eying 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. “No; he won’t let anybody make _me_ ky,” chimed in Evelyn, promptly accepting the proffered protection. “On my word, Ellen, the fellow has some of the old blood in him,” said Major Stafford, much pleased. “Come here, my young knight.” He drew the boy up to him. “I had rather have heard you say that than have won a brigadier’s wreath. You shall have your breeches and your sword next Christmas. Were I the king I should give you your spurs. Remember, never let any one make your mother or sister cry.” Charlie nodded in token of his acceptance of the condition. “All right,” he said. III.