But the camp regretted on the whole that, instead of being shelved at his house, the gambler had not been slain.

For nearly a week the wan little foundling, emerging from the vale of shadows at the home of Miss Dennihan, lay as if debating, in his grave, baby way, the pros and cons of existence.  And even when, at last, he was well on the road to recovery, he somehow seemed more quiet than ever before.

The rough old “boys” of the town could not, by any process of their fertile brains, find an adequate means of expressing their relief and delight when they knew at last the quaint little fellow was again himself.

They came to Miss Dennihan’s in groups, with brand-new presents and with wonderful spirits.  They played on the floor like so many well-meaning bears; they threatened to fetch their poor, neglected Christmas-tree from the blacksmith-shop; they urged Miss Doc to start a candy-pull, a night-school, a dancing-class, and a game of blindman’s-buff forthwith.  Moreover, not a few discovered traces of beauty and sweetness in the face of the formerly plain, severe old maid, and slyly one or two began a species of courtship.

On all their manoeuvres the little convalescent looked with grave curiosity.  Such antics he had surely never seen.  Pale and silent, as he sat on Jim’s big knee one evening, he watched the men intently, their crude attempts at his entertainment furnishing an obvious puzzle to his tiny mind.  Then presently he looked with wonder and awe at the presents, unable to understand that all this wealth of bottles, cubes, tops, balls, and wagons was his own.

The carpenter was spelling “cat” and “dog” and “Jim” with the blocks, while Field was rolling the balls on the floor and others were demonstrating the beauties and functions of kaleidoscopes and endless other offerings; but through it all the pale little guest of the camp still held with undiminished fervor to the doll that Jim had made when first he came to Borealis.

“We’d ought to git up another big Christmas,” said the blacksmith, standing with his arms akimbo.  “He didn’t have no holidays worth a cent.”

“We could roll ’em all into one,” suggested Field—­“Christmas, New Year’s, St. Valentine’s, and Fourth of July.”

“What’s the matter with Washington’s birthday?” Bone inquired.

“And mine?” added Keno, pulling down his sleeves.  “By jinks! it comes next week.”

“Aw, you never had a birthday,” answered the teamster.  “You was jest mixed up and baked, like gingerbread.”

“Or a lemon pie,” said the carpenter, with obvious sarcasm.

“Wal, holidays are awful hard for some little folks to digest,” said Jim.  “I’m kind of scared to see another come along.”

“I should think to-night is pretty near holiday enough,” said the altered Miss Doc.  “Our little boy has come ’round delightful.”

“Kerrect,” said Bone.  “But if us old cusses could see him sort of laughin’ and crowin’ it would do us heaps of good.”