It was Boy's mother who had started the idea. She was one of those women, lovable utterly, not always reasonable, who find solace in dramatising their own sorrows. So when, two years before, her husband, commanding a native cavalry regiment still quartered in the station, had been ordered to Africa on Staff duty, she had remained on in the big house, sharing it with a friend, and continuing religiously to care for all things for which her absent soldier had cared--even for the regiment which was still so proud of its Colonel at the front. It was a heartrending solace, indeed, to see the native officers and men, when they inquired for the latest news, salute Boy as solemnly as they would have saluted his father; and it pleased her to perceive that the only regard these warriors had for _her_ was as guardian of their Sahib's honour and of his only son; for the wellbeing of which things they were fiercely jealous. To this woman, militant to the heart's core yet sentimentally pitiful, it had seemed appropriate that Boy--son of the only fighting father in the station--should play the part of the "_Christ-kind_," the Bringer of good gifts at the Christmas-tree. There was no geographical or ethnological reason why this German custom should obtain among the Boers, but Boy's mother had recollections of school-days abroad, and thought that her little son, with his aureole of red hair and grave baby face, so like the absent hero, would look sweet in the part. "It isn't skittles at all, Boy," she said softly. "Remember what I told you about loving your enemies." "I'd wather fight 'em, like Daddy," replied Boy, drawing from its scabbard the miniature sword of strict regimental pattern which--it being a new toy--he had refused to lay aside even for angelic robings. "But it is Christmas," persisted his mother. "Remember what I told you about it--about the angels, and the peace, and goodwill." "I shink Chrishmus shkittles, too." "Quite right, youngster! It _is_ skittles in India," put in a tall man, who, farther down the verandah, was watching a woman's fingers busy themselves over church decorations. His rather reckless expression changed as, stooping to select a brilliant branch of scarlet-fingered poinsettia from the confused heap of flowers and greenery at their feet, he handed it to his companion, and she looked up to thank him with her eyes. Boy's mother, who had glanced towards them at the interrupting voice, paused over the angelic robe, uneasily silent. "I wish I had something white, beside the roses," remarked the cross-maker a trifle hurriedly. "They don't look a bit Christmassy." "Lilies?" suggested the man. She shook her head. "Lilies don't suit the climate; there aren't any--_here_."