"Huldah, come here. This is my old classmate, Barthow; sat next me at prayers four years. He is a major in their army, you see. His horse stumbled, and pitched him against a stone wall; and he has not spoken since. Don't tell me he is dying; but do as well for him, Huldah,"--and the handsome boy smiled,--"do as well for him as you did for me." So they carried Barthow, senseless as he was, tenderly into the church; and he became E, 27, on an iron bedstead. Not half our soup was wanted, nor our beef-tea, nor our punch. So much the better. Then came day and night, week in and out, of army system, and womanly sensibility; that quiet, cheerful, _homish_, hospital life, in the quaint surroundings of the white-washed church; the pointed arches of the windows and the faded moreen of the pulpit telling that it is a church, in a reminder not unpleasant. Two or three weeks of hopes and fears, failures and success, bring us to Christmas eve. * * * * * It is the surgeon-in-chief, who happens to give our particular Christmas dinner,--I mean the one that interests you and me. Huldah and the other ladies had accepted his invitation. Horace Bartlett and his staff, and some of the other officers, were guests; and the doctor had given his own permit that Major Barthow might walk up to his quarters with the ladies. Huldah and he were in advance, he leaning, with many apologies, on her arm. Dr. Sprigg and Anna Thwart were far behind. The two married ladies, as needing no escort, were in the middle. Major Barthow enjoyed the emancipation, was delighted with his companion, could not say enough to make her praise the glimpses of Virginia, even if it were West Virginia. "What a party it is, to be sure!" said he. "The doctor might call on us for our stories, as one of Dickens's chiefs would do at a Christmas feast. Let's see, we should have THE SURGEON'S TALE; THE GENERAL'S TALE; for we may at least make believe that Hod's stars have come from Washington. Then we must call in that one-eyed servant of his; and we will have THE ORDERLY'S TALE. Your handsome friend from Wisconsin shall tell THE GERMAN'S TALE. I shall be encouraged to tell THE PRISONER'S TALE. And you"-- "And I?" said Huldah laughing, because he paused. "You shall tell THE SAINT'S TALE." Barthow spoke with real feeling, which he did not care to disguise. But Huldah was not there for sentiment; and without quivering in the least, nor making other acknowledgment, she laughed as she knew she ought to do, and said, "Oh, no! that is quite too grand, the story must end with THE SUPERINTENDENT OF SPECIAL RELIEF'S TALE. It is a little unromantic to the sound; but that's what it is." "I don't see," persisted the major, "if Superintendent of Special Relief means Saint in Latin, why we should not say so."