"Yes. Thank God, Uncle Noah," the Colonel laid a gentle hand on the negro's shoulder, "that she doesn't know of our--er--financial crisis"--his halting utterance showed how distasteful the words were to him--"save, of course, that we must live with economy, as we have for years. Of the catastrophe of last fall she is ignorant, and a Fairfax Christmas without a turkey would--she must not know," he finished abruptly. The Colonel had spoken with a simple dignity and confidence that brought the old negro back from the field of sentiment to the barren desert of reality. Dimly in his mental chaos stood forth three pitiless facts: "Ol' Missus" was grieving her heart out for the son with whom the Colonel had quarreled three years before; of this money trouble from which Colonel Fairfax had shielded her she must as yet know nothing; and there was no turkey for the Christmas dinner. Verily things looked dark for the ill-fated Job, roosting in unsuspecting security in the desolate old barn. With bowed head the darky walked slowly toward the door. "Uncle Noah," the Colonel's tones were incisive, "you will kill Job tonight." "I mos' forgot, Massa Dick," faltered Uncle Noah, "dat supper's ready, sah. Ol' Missus done come downstairs jus' foh I chases Job to roost. Laws-a-massy, Massa Dick, can't he live till after supper?" The Colonel nodded, carefully avoiding the old man's troubled eyes, and went to join his wife at supper. "Christmas Eve, my dear," he announced cheerfully as he bent to kiss the sweet, wistful face that turned to greet him. "I beg your pardon for keeping you waiting. Uncle Noah and I were discussing to-morrow's turkey;" he gazed calmly at the old negro nervously handling the tea things; "he has selected a large bird and I have been advising a smaller." The Colonel opened his napkin and deftly tucked the hole in the end out of sight beneath the table. "Now, Uncle Noah, what is there to-night for supper?" To Uncle Noah this nightly question had become a sacred institution, a stimulus to imaginative powers highly developed in his quaint dialogues with the Colonel. He forgot the doomed Job. It was Christmas Eve, and his creative gift took festive wings. "Well, sah," he beamed, "we has a little chicken gumbo, some fried chicken jus' the right golden brown, sah, creamed potatoes, hot biscuits with currant jelly--er--sliced ham and baked potatoes." Colonel Fairfax thoughtfully considered the appetizing prospect in accordance with the rules of the game. What mattered it that the luscious edibles existed only in the brain of the loyal old darky? The little pretense gave to each a delightful thrill--surely an adequate extenuation of the harmless diversion. As usual Colonel Fairfax found the key to the situation in the closing items of Uncle Noah's list.