When he had grown calm she brought a cup of coffee to him.  He drank it, and then she led him to the little dining-room, where a midnight supper had been set for four, but, because of his absence, had not been touched.  He saw the tree and the toys that the messenger had left, and spoke for the first time.  “Oh, wife dear, have they all come?  Are they all here?  The toys and all?” and then, seeing the overcoat that the messenger had left on a chair near by, and which his wife had not yet seen, he cried excitedly, “Take that away—­it isn’t mine!”

“Why, yes, dear,” said his wife, “it must be yours.”

“No, no,” he said; “I bought a coat like that, but I sold it.  I drank a lot and only climbed on the train as it was pulling out of Omaha.  In the warm car I fell asleep and dreamed the sweetest dream I ever knew.  I had come home sober with all the things, you had kissed me, we had a great dinner here, and there stood the Christmas tree, the children were here, the messenger and his wife, and their children.  We were all so happy!  I saw the shadow fade from your face, saw you smile and heard you laugh; saw the old love-light in your eyes and the rose coming into your cheek.  And then—­’Oh, bitterness of things too sweet!’—­I woke to find my own old trembling self again.  It was all a dream.  Looking across the aisle, I saw that coat on the back of an empty seat.  I knew it was not mine, for I had sold mine for two miserable dollars.  I knew, too, that the man who gave them to me got them back again before they were warm in my pocket.  This thought embittered me, and, picking up the coat, I walked out and stood on the platform of the baggage car.  At the next stop they took me off and turned me over to the city marshal,—­for the coat belonged to the Superintendent.

“It is like mine, except that it is real, and mine, of course, was only a good imitation.  Take it away, wife—­do take it away—­it haunts me!”

Pitying him, the wife put the coat out of his sight; and immediately he grew calm, drank freely of the strong coffee, but he could not eat.  Presently he went over and began to arrange the little Christmas tree in the box his wife had prepared for it during his absence.  She began opening the parcels, and when she could trust herself, began to talk about the surprise they would have for the children, and now and again to express her appreciation of some dainty trifle he had selected for her.  She watched him closely, noting that his hand was unsteady, and that he was inclined to stagger after stooping for a little while.  Finally, when the tree had been trimmed, and the sled for the boy and the doll-carriage for the girl were placed beneath it, she got him to lie down.  When she had made him comfortable she kissed him again, knelt by his bed and prayed, or rather offered thanks, and he was asleep.

Two hours later the subdued shouts of her babies, the exclamations of glad surprise that came in stage whispers from the dining-room, woke her, and she rose from the little couch where she had fallen asleep, already dressed to begin the day.