Of the Dawning of Christmas Day

"Ah, Dick!" says he, as he turned and saw me, "A Merry Christmas to thee."

Now it had ever been our custom, since he and I and Bentley were lads together at Charterhouse, at this so happy season to greet each other thus, but for once I found the words to stick most woefully, and for no reason in the world my eyes wandered from his face to the miniature upon the table, seeing which he picked it up--yet kept it covered in his hand.

"Dick," says he, staring up at the cornice very hard, "we loved her mother well--passing well--you, and Bentley, and I."

"Aye," says I, "we did."

"This was the first great sorrow of my life--that by my happiness you two were rendered desolate," says he, laying his hand upon my shoulder.

"No, no," says I.

"Yes," says he, "think you I have been so blind, Dick?"

"You were her choice," says I.

"True, I was her choice," he repeated, "and methinks it came nigh breaking both your hearts, yet you were my friends still--the old bonds were too strong for self to break them."

"'T were a poor friendship else," says I.

"And now, Dick," says he, with his eyes on the cornice again, "there is Pen," and I saw his lips quiver slightly.

"Aye," I nodded, "there's Pen--our Pen."

I felt his fingers tighten on my shoulder, but he was silent.

"When I go out to-day," says he at last, and stopped.