Christmas was coming.  As he stood, day after day, looking out of the gray window, he could see the signs of its coming even in the shop-windows glittering with miraculous toys, in the market-carts with their red-faced drivers and heaps of ducks and turkeys, in every stage-coach or omnibus that went by crowded with boys home for the holidays, hallooing for Bell or Lincoln, forgetful that the election was over and Carolina out.

Pike came to see him one day, his arms full of a bundle, which turned out to be an accordion for Sophy.

“Christmas, you know,” he said, taking off the brown paper, while he was cursing the Cotton States the hardest, and gravely kneading at the keys, and stretching it until he made as much discord as five Congressmen.  “I think Sophy will like that,” he said, tying it up carefully.

“I am sure she will,” said Holmes,—­and did not think the man a fool for one moment.

Always going back, this Holmes, when he was alone, to the certainty that homecomings or children’s kisses or Christmas feasts were not for such as he,—­never could be, though he sought for the old time in bitterness of heart; and so, dully remembering his resolve, and waiting for Christmas eve, when, he might end it all.  Not one of the myriads of happy children listened more intently to the clock clanging off hour after hour than the silent, stern man who had no hope in that day that was coming.

He learned to watch even for poor Lois coming up the corridor every day,—­being the only tie that bound the solitary man to the inner world of love and warmth.  The deformed little body was quite alive with Christmas now, and brought its glow with her, in her weak way.  Different from the others, he saw with a curious interest.  The day was more real to her than to them.  Not because, only, the care she had of everybody and everybody had of her seemed to reach its culmination of kindly thought for the Christmas time; not because, as she sat talking slowly, stopping for breath, her great fear seemed to be that she would not have gifts enough to go round; but deeper than that,—­the day was real to her.  As if it were actually true that the Master in whom she believed was freshly born into the world once a year, to waken all that was genial and noble and pure in the turbid, worn-out hearts; as if new honor and pride and love did come with the breaking of Christmas morn.  It was a beautiful faith; he almost wished it were his. (Perhaps in that day when the under-currents of life shall be bared, this man with his self-reliant soul will know the subtile instincts that drew him to true manhood and feeling by the homely practice of poor Lois.  He did not see them now.) A beautiful faith! it gave a meaning to the old custom of gifts and kind words. Love coming into the world!—­the idea pleased his artistic taste, being simple and sublime.  Lois used to tell him, while she feebly tried to set his room in order, of all her plans,—­of