Around Harry Baker’s childhood there clustered no remembrance of prayers said at the mother’s knee, or of Bible stories told in the dusky twilight, and though reared in New England, within sight of the church spire, he had rarely been inside the house of God, and this it was which made the difference between that scene and the one transpiring in the house of Widow Simms. All the animal passions in Harry Baker’s case were brought to full perfection, unsubdued by any softer influence, and rising from the table, after having filled his stomach almost to bursting, he swaggered across the room, and opening his bundle began to comment upon the different articles, he having been too drunk to notice them when given to him on the previous night. “What in thunder is this for?” he exclaimed, holding up the calico housewife, and letting buttons, scissors and thread drop upon the floor. “Plaguy pretty implements of war, these!” and he began to enumerate the articles. “Fine tooth comb, black as the ace of spades. Good enough idea that; hain’t used one since I can remember;” and he passed it through his shaggy hair, whose appearance fully verified the truth of his assertion. “Half a paper of pins. Why didn’t the stingy critters give us more? An old brass thimble, too. Here, mother, I’ll give you that to remember me by,” and he tossed it into her lap. The drawers then took his attention; the identical pair Rose Mather made, and though they were better than any he had ever worn, he laughed at them derisively. Trying them on he succeeded in making quite a long rip in one of the seams, for Rose’s stitches were none the shortest. Then, with a flourish, he kicked them off, uttering an oath as he felt a sharp scratch from the needle which Rose had broken, and failed to extricate. The woolen shirt came next, but any remarks he might have made upon that, were prevented by his catching sight of the _little brown book_ which lay at the bottom of the bundle. “Hurrah, Bill, if here ain’t a Testament, with ‘Harry Baker’ inside. Rich, by George! Wonder if they s’posed I’d read it. Let us see what it says. ‘Come unto me all ye that labor.’ Mother, that means _you_, scrubbin’ and workin’, you know. Keep the pesky thing. I enlisted to lick the Southerners, not to sing _himes_ and psalms!” and he threw the sacred book across the floor, just as the first drum-beat sounded. “That’s the signal,” he exclaimed, and hastily rolling up the shirt and drawers, he started for the door, carelessly saying, “Come Bill take your Testament and come along. Good-bye, old lady. You needn’t wear black if I’m killed. ’Twon’t pay, I guess.” “Oh, Harry, Harry, wait. Wait, Billy boy, do wait. Give your old marm one kiss,” and the poor woman tottered toward Harry, who savagely repulsed her, saying “he wan’t going to have her slobberin’ over him.” “You, Billy, then, you’ll let me kiss you, won’t you?” and she turned toward Bill, who hesitated a moment, for Harry was in the way.