Hallam had found in camp a copy of a Southern newspaper; and, thinking it might amuse the company to read it, produced it.  Ailsa, looking over his shoulder, noticed a poem called “Christmas,” printed on the first page.

“Read it aloud,” he said, laughing.  “Let’s hear what sort of Christmas poetry the Johnnies produce.”

So, after smilingly scanning the first lines, she began, aloud; but her face had grown very grave, and her low voice thrilled them as she became conscious of the deeper sadness of the verse.

    “How grace this Hallowed Day? 
  Shall happy bells from yonder ancient spire
  Send their glad greetings to each Christmas fire
    Round which our children play?

    “How shall we grace the Day? 
  With feast and song and dance and homely sport,
  And shout of happy children in the court,
    And tales of ghost and fay?

    “Is there indeed a door
  Where the old pastimes with their joyful noise
  And all the merry round of Christmas joys
    Can enter as of yore?

    “Would not some pallid face
  Look in upon the banquet, calling up
  Dread shapes of battle in the Christmas cup,
    And trouble all the place?

    “How can we hear the mirth
  While some loved reveller of a year ago
  Keeps his mute Christmas now beneath the snow,
    In cold Virginia earth—­”

Her voice suddenly broke; she laughed, slightly hysterical, the tears glittering in her eyes.

“I—­c-can’t—­read it, somehow. . . .  Forgive me, everybody, I think I’m—­tired——­”

“Nerves,” said West cheerily.  “It’ll all come right in a moment, Mrs. Paige.  Go up and sit by Davis for a while.  He’s going fast.”

Curious advice, yet good for her.  And Ailsa rose and fled; but a moment later, seated at the side of the dying man, all thought of self vanished in the silent tragedy taking place before her.

“Davis?” she whispered.

The man opened his sunken eyes as the sleepy steward rose, gave his bedside chair to Ailsa, and replaced the ominous screen.

“I am here, Private Davis,” she said cheerily, winking away the last tear drop.

Then the man sighed deeply, rested his thin cheek against her hand, and lay very, very still.

At midnight he died as he lay.  She scarcely realised it at first.  And when at length she did, she disengaged her chilled hand, closed his eyes, drew the covering over his face, and, stepping from behind the screen, motioned to the steward on duty.

Descending the stairs, her pale, pensive glance rested on the locket flashing on its chain over the scarlet heart sewn on her breast.  Somehow, at thought of Hallam waiting for her below, she halted on the stairway, one finger twisted in the gold chain.  And presently the thought of Hallam reminded her of the trooper and the hot dinner she had promised the poor fellow.  Had the cook been kind to him?