He was nearer to his son than he had ever been since the day he last saw him in all the pride and beauty of a gallant young soldier. The grave, at least, was not neglected. It was marked by a modest cross, on which was the Hampden coat-of-arms and the motto, “_Loyal_,” and it was banked in fresh evergreens, and some flowers had been placed on it only that afternoon. It set the General to thinking. When he returned to his hotel, he found the loneliness unbearable. His visit to his son's grave had opened the old wound and awakened all his memories. He knew now that he had ruined his life. The sooner the doctor's forecast came true, the better. He had no care to live longer. He would return to work and die in harness. He sent his servant to the office and arranged for his car to be put on the first train next morning. Then, to escape from his thoughts, he strolled out in the street where the shopping crowds streamed along, old and young, poor and well-to-do, their arms full of bundles, their faces eager, and their eyes alight. General Hampden seemed to himself to be walking among ghosts. As he stalked on, bitter and lonely, he was suddenly run into by a very little boy, in whose small arms was so big a bundle that he could scarcely see over it. The shock of the collision knocked the little fellow down, sitting flat on the pavement, still clutching his bundle. But his face after the first shadow of surprise lit up again. “I beg your pardon, sir--that was my fault,” he said, with so quaint an imitation of an old person that the General could not help smiling. With a cheery laugh, he tried to rise to his feet, but the bundle was too heavy, and he would not let it go. The General bent over him and, with an apology, set him on his feet. “I beg _your_ pardon, sir. That was _my_ fault. That is a pretty big bundle you have.” “Yes, sir; and I tell you, it is pretty heavy, too,” the manikin said, proudly. “It 's a Christmas gift.” He started on, and the General turned with him. “A Christmas gift! It must be a fine one. Who gave it to you?” demanded the General, with a smile at the little fellow's confidence. “It is a fine one! Did n't anybody give it to me. We 're giving it to somebody.” “Oh! You are? To whom?” “I 'll tell you; but you must promise not to tell.” “I promise I will not tell a soul. I cross my heart.” He made a sign as he remembered he used to do in his boyhood. The boy looked up at him doubtfully with a shade of disapproval. “My grandfather says that you must not cross your heart--'t a gentleman's word is enough,” he said, quaintly. “Oh, he does? Well, I give my word.” “Well--” He glanced around to see that no one was listening, and sidling a little nearer, lowered his voice: “It 's a great-coat for grandfather!” “A great-coat! That's famous!” exclaimed the General.